To H. Leland Varley
With gratitude, respect, and affection.
EDITORIAL BOARD
CONTENTS
Editor-in-chief
Prose editor
Poetry editor
Sam Kaplan
Erwin Pally
Lorna Regolsky
Comment in Print 2
Traffic Lights and Strawberry Sodas
Edmund Shellings 4
LITERARY BOARD
Jan Chaskes
Barbara Gillespie
Ronald B. Fitzpatrick
Anna Downes
Ralph Drinkwater
Madeleine May
Joan La Chance
Baptism and Extreme Unction
Joseph Von Deck 7
Lorna’s Page Lorna Regolsky 9
Take Me to the Park Erwin Pally 10
Maria Madeleine May 13
Four Poems Barbara Steplar 14
Campus at Night A portfolio by Tom Smith 21
„ • c- i Not to the Swift Barbara Gillespie 32
Secretary Llame oiegel j
Business Manager Robert Chalue Mystic Candles David Licciardi 36
Advertising Assistant
Edward Cohen Book Reviews 37
Literary Advisor Richard Haven
Business Advisor 1 WO Poems Barbara Smith 40
Lawrence Dickinson
The Winner of the Quarterly’s 1954-55 High School
Literary Magazine 41
VOL. XVI II NUMBER 2
Published four times a year by
the undergraduate student body of
the University of Massachusetts.
Quarterly offices are in Memorial
Hall, room 1.
The magazine is printed by
Hamilton I. Newell, Inc., 534
M ain Street, Amherst.
Cover: Elaine Abbe
Quarterly
Comment in Print
It has been a long time since
the last Quarterly reached
the campus. To the staff the
interval has seemed interm-
inable, but more important, un-
necessary.
Some have said that the mag-
azine should not mention its
suspension and the subsequent
institution of censorship (or
“review”, to employ Mr. Math-
er’s euphemism). “You are a
literary magazine,” say some.
“Do not lower yourselves to us-
ing the Quarterly to fight out
another round in this relatively
unimportant matter.”
So speak the draftsmen for
the “higher than thou and
above all that” school of lit pub-
lications. But freedom is not
gained and held by being above
it and the struggle for it.
The Quarterly is not a free
publication, for non-staff per-
sons must — in the case of the
advisor — and may — in the case
of the president — edit every-
thing in the magazine. The
president of the university in-
sists that the advisors read
everything we intend to pub-
lish. and when the advisor
thinks that an article or poem
should not be printed he must
turn the material over to the
president of the school.
Then Mr. Mather makes the
final decision.
It has come to a sorry day
when the university president
must take the time to edit. He
insists, of course, that such cen-
sorship (or “review”) is need-
ed because the Q has been ob-
scene or vulgar, and because it
has written of the “tenderloin
sections’’ (Mr. Mather’s
phrase) of life.
We think he is not only
wrong to claim that the Quar-
terly is vulgar but also hypo-
critical to maintain that his
privilege to edit material is not
censorship. Webster says that a
censor is “an official empow-
ered to examine written or
printed matter ... in order to
forbid publication if objection-
able.”
Mr. Mather has the privilege
to do this. What he will do if
staff and advisor disagree is no
less than censorship. He has not
yet had cause to employ his
values for the community’s wel-
fare in this case.
The validity of censorship
rests on the assumption that the
censor’s values have an absolute
rectitude, a correspondence to
“Truth”.
Censorship is a repudiation
of the possibility of error in
high or low position.
Someday Mr. Mather will
probably have to use his privil-
ege. Disagreement on “taste” is
inevitable, for if the staff and
the advisor never come into op-
position on a story, then Mr.
Mather may find something re-
pugnant to his sense of moral-
ity or fitness.
The president, by virtue of
his position, has always had the
legal power to censor, suspend,
or disband. But this does not
make such action justified with-
in the framework of a democ-
racy. Further, as the president
himself has pointed out, he is
not “one of the great class of
literates.”
One advisor has already re-
signed, apparently because of
Mr. Mather’s assumption of
censor’s power and privilege.
Another teacher has agreed to
take the job. but what will hap-
pen if Mr. Mather ever orders
another Quarterly suspension?
Perhaps some day Mr. Math-
er will unify the liberal arts fac-
ulty in opposition to him by his
(Continued on Page 39)
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I
Quarterly
traffic lights
and
strawberry sodas
edmund skellinss has almost finished two rears here, though he began in
If you've got a minute. I’d
like to tell you a story. I’ve
decided to tell it to you be-
cause I don’t think you're the
kind that shocks very easily. It's
one of those things that you
don’t tell to just anybody. It
happened in an Army barracks
deep below the Mason-Dixon
line.
I was lying on my bunk, try-
ing vainly to catch a few winks.
The past two weeks had been
pretty trying and I was men-
tally whipped. I had been
made Section Chief of the reg-
iment’s Public Information Of-
fice; and the paper work ac-
companying my efforts to re-
organize it to suit myself had
been a strain.
Occasionally a sand gnat
lighted on my perspiring face,
and their frequent landings
were enough to keep me from
falling fast asleep, but the
warm blur of drowsiness felt
real fine, anyway.
After a time I became vague-
ly uneasy, as if someone were
staring at me. I tugged my
eyelids open and. sure enough,
there was someone standing at
the foot of my bunk. After the
1949. Three years ivil
chutist and editor (of
vened. Shellings drives
to show it off. and ma ,
Tuesday night to serve
haze lifted away, I made out
the beady little eyes of the Cor-
poral who lived at the other
end of the barracks. For the
life of me, I couldn’t figure out
why they had made this guy a
corporal. He was a pretty fair
draftsman, but he had about as
much way with people as the
good old North Carolina pine
tick. His short little frame
seemed to be trying to figure
something out. I took a guess
that it was me.
“You awake, Sarge?”
He looked concerned. Now
what? If the goddam office
wanted me on a Saturday after-
noon . . .
“What the hell does it look
like?”
“I didn’t want to wake yon
up, but you're the only guy
around with a car and I gotta
get up to the Main Post Libra-
ry right away. I'll make it
worth your while . . .”
I was half relieved and half
annoyed. The library . . . God!
I didn’t know anyone in this
stupid outfit could read. You
know, it might even be a possi-
bility that this guy had read
my last week's editorial. I was
h the 82nd Airborne as a para-
'he Fort Bragg Paraglide) inter-
a bright red sports car, commutes
zes an extra trip to campus each
as a commuter senator.
beginning to warm up to him
already, and I didn’t even
know his name.
“I'll give you a buck if you
drive me up, how's that?”
“Keep your money. I guess
I'll never get to sleep here any-
way; besides, I've got to get
some reading done today some-
time.”
It was true. I had a feature
to get out before deadline Mon-
day morning on a Polish kid
who was a Russki POW dur-
ing the Second World War. I
needed a few facts about Pol-
and to make it appear authen-
tic. Nothing like appearing
authentic, I always say.
The guy didn't speak another
word either leaving the area or
driving up to the library. We
had bumped into another cor-
poral in the dayroom who was
heading there, too. and he sat
in the back, quietly humming
to himself. His name was
Floyd, Joe Floyd. I found out
some time later that our little
“bumping into” was a long
way from accidental.
The little beady-eyed corpor-
al (It said “McMullin” on the
back of his fatigues, but you
4
Spuing 1955
Elaine Abbe , the illustrator for this story and the
artist who did the cover, is a grad student from Agawam.
She started her education at Western Reserve College in
Ohio, switched to New Haven (Conn.) State Teachers
College. She likes people , she says , but hates Bermudas.
This leads to conflicts. She also hates cats.
Quarterly
learn to overlook that. A lot of
“borrowing” goes on . . . ) As
I was saying, the little one
could hardly wait to get out of
the car. and Floyd was hot on
his heels. You would have
thought there was a woman in
there, and come to think of it.
there was . . . behind the
check-out desk. But by the
time I arrived on the scene,
neither of them was around
and the girl on duty was en-
grossed in the latest issue of
Harper's Bazaar.
1 browsed through the stacks
for a while and then pulled
Carl Ritcher’s Poland and
World War II from the shelf
and sat down with it. f must
have been there for about ten
minutes when a little motion
from the basement stairwell
caught my eye. I looked past
the desk, and. you guessed it.
there were those two beady
eyes staring right back at me.
He had his head and shoulders
up above the floor level and he
was beckoning to me with a
stubby little finger. As soon as
I rose up out of the chair, he
vanished down into the base-
ment. T kind of half chuckled
to myself. If I hadn't known
where l was, I would have
sworn that it was the start of a
real poor second-rate movie.
Mc.Mullin (of all things, it
turned out to be his name) was
waiting for me on the first
landing, and as I started down
the stairs, he turned and
walked ahead of me, talking
softly as he went.
“I want that you should hear
my piano, man.”
Now I should let you know
how I like good piano. To this
day I don't know how McMul-
lin sensed it. but he sure did.
Do I like piano? Well, I can
probably whistle every note
that Kenton, Garner, or Carroll
ever played on a recording.
But I was suspicious. It
wasn't that I didn't think this
guy could play, mind you. but
with those stubby little fingers
I wondered whether he could
even find the keys. And as us-
ual. my practised and carefully
cultivated method of assaying
ability was all wet.
We passed a partly open
door and I glanced inside as
we went by. It was the chil-
dren’s reading room ; you
know, pint-sized chairs and ta-
bles and the like and a scatter-
ing of thin, many-colored hooks
with thick cardboard covers.
We slid into the music room,
and when I say slid, l mean it.
McMullin held the door open
for me like he was afraid all
the air would leak out.
The music room (I had nev-
er been there before . . . you see,
I don't play myself) — where
was I? Oh. yeah, the music
room. It was furnished pretty
well; pastel walls, a thick car-
pet. and a few overstaffed
chairs against one wall for lis-
tening-type people. In one rest-
ed the body of Joe Floyd, who
sat staring up at the ceiling,
where the smoke from his cig-
arette curled listlessly. In the
center of the room, was a mas-
sive grand piano gleaming wax-
ily in the dim light, which fil-
tered through two high case-
ment windows well above
Floyd’s head. Floyd lowered
his gaze to McMullin.
“Hurry up and make some
sound, huh?”
“Hold your water. The ser-
geant wants to get with us.
too.
It must have satisfied him
because he didn t say anything
more. I turned and picked out
a chair to await my torture and
hadn't even made myself com-
fortable when my stubby-fin-
gered little friend threw him
self at the keyboard. Let me
tell you. what came out was
never printed in the First Pi-
ano Primer.
He bounced, slid, chewed a
cigarette till I thought he'd
burn his lips. He stared at the
ceiling, at the walls, and then
closed his lids so tight I imag-
ined that he'd crushed his eye-
balls. And was the music
worth it! At that time I be-
lieve 1 would have given my
left leg to play like that (I keep
time with my right one.) To
make it more incredible, the
kid was composing it in his
head, and all without violating
a rule. You could hardly fol-
low his hands when he was up-
tempo and when he came down
and played soft and slow it was
like hearing tear-drops fall up-
on bone-china bells. It seemed
almost as if he were playing a
story.
All at once there was no
more sound. I opened my un-
consciously closed eyes. Mc-
Mullin was leaning over at me
from the piano.
“You like my tone, man?
Are you really feeling with
me?”
Not too much was I im-
pressed ! I could have kissed
him for being so goddam
good, that’s all.
“Look. I’ve never heard pi-
ano like that before. You've
got a great touch. How long
have you been at it?”
Joe Floyd laughed at the
other side of the room. I
looked back at McMullin and
he was smiling.
“How long at what?”
“At the keyboard, what do
you think I mean?”
Joe Floyd laughed again and
this time McMullin laughed
right along with him. I began
(Continued on Page 15)
6
Spring 1955
Saptiam
anti
txtn'itu' Mttrtimt
Joseph Von Deck , the author , is a junior veteran,
majoring in history and thinking about geology — possible
goals archeology. He is president of the freshman honor-
ary society.
Ni-chi-chi is one of the sev-
eral hills that guard the
southern approaches of the
Chorwan dam. Like so
many other Korean hilltops that
have, in the course of recent
years, become an American Val-
halla, it is an inconspicuous
looking entity; it is only a small
hill with relatively gentle slopes
on three sides; only the western
slope facing Chi-chi rises pre-
cipitously from the valley floor.
It is a barren hill; its slopes to-
tally devoid of all vegetation.
What little there had been has
long since been blasted away.
Only the rocks remain; massive
granitic outcrops that ridge the
concave summit and gaze
frowningly over the valley be-
low. Only the rocks remain,
and man . . .
Joe leaned against the cold
steel of the machine-gun; he
peered into the obscuring mists
of the early dawn. On the slope
below he was beginning to
make out things; objects were
taking distinct form — rocks,
tree stumps. He checked the
slide; it clicked reassuringly.
He rested his chin against the
chamber; his breath painted
weird, fantastic designs in frost
on the barrel. He peered in-
tently into the mists; he was
looking for something he knew
was there, but he couldn’t see
it. A figure crawled up and
squatted beside him.
See anythin’, kid?
Not a thing. Nothin’ but
snow.
Keep lookin’, boy — the figure
warned — we’re next, an’ it’s
’bout that time.
Joe looked up nervously. The
figure read the anxious lines on
the kid’s face. He nodded and
motioned with his head to the
ridge on the left.
Yeah, he said, they got Chi-
chi las’ night. We’re next. The
figure crawled away. Joe
checked his slide again; he
rubbed his hands together to
warm them. We re next, he
muttered nervously.
Yeah, said a voice beside
him, we’re next . . . Stars are
pretty, ain’t they?
Joe looked up at the heavens:
the stars shone crystal clear in
the sharp coldness of the win-
try sky. Polaris gleamed cheer-
fully overhead ; the jewels in
Orion’s belt flickered in the
west ; behind them on the left
Saggittarius aimed an arrow at
the poisoned sting of Scorpio.
Pretty, ain't they? Frankie
repeated calmly.
Yeah, the kid agreed, sure.
Frankie stared down the
slope; he watched a patch of
snow move from behind a
blasted tree over to a rock.
They’re cornin’ now, he said
calmly.
Where? There was a tinge of
panic in Joe’s voice.
Jus’ ta the right o’ that
tree . . .
I didn’t see nothin’ . . . noth-
in’ but snow!
I did, Frankie said emphat-
ically.
So did ah, a voice on the left
agreed.
3lmu'yh
iF.
Unit fork
7
Quarterly
I’m scared! Joe said nervous-
ly-
We all are, kid. Frankie
gripped him by the shoulder
good-naturedly. We all are.
The main thing is ta keep a
cool goddamit . . . That’s all —
keep a cool goddamit.
Sure, the kid agreed nervous-
ly, sure. He gripped the han-
dles of the gun more tightly.
He checked the safety catch;
he checked the slide again. He
peered down the slope. This
time he saw the snow move.
We’re next, he muttered,
we’re next !
A watch ticked . . . seconds
on seconds. And seconds were
an eternity ... an eternity that
wore hard on the thin thread of
human patience. The three
watched the snow move clos-
er— bit by bit. Joe turned to
the figure on his left:
For God’s sake, Reb, say
somethin’ will ya? Yer drivin’
me bats jus’ sittin’ there. Say
somethin’, will ya?
Ah'd better not, Reh an-
swered.
Frankie looked at him. Ya
mean you’ve run outta them
damned Rible quotations for
once ?
Nope, — Reh shook his head
very confidently. Ah’ve still
got some . . . Matter o’ fact,
one’s been runnin’ through ma
haid all night. He paused . . .
Joe looked at Frankie. Reb
raised his eyes toward the ubi-
quitous skies. Yeah, he said
apologetically, funny, ain’t it?
Blessed be the works of the
Lord!! — Then in a slow emo-
tion-filled voice: “Verily I say
unto you. Today shalt thou be
with me in Paradise . . .”
Frankie and Joe looked at
one another, then at Reb. Their
eyes met Reb’s. His gaze was
firm and confident — the confid-
ence of a man with deep faith
in his God and a firm convic-
tion of salvation in the face of
death.
. . . Paradise, he repeated
softly. Joe made the sign of
the cross; Frankie laughed un-
easily.
Then all hell broke loose . . .
From ridge to ridge echoed the
blaring, discordant, martial
tones of trumpets . . . From
ridge to ridge they echoed and
from earth to heaven. Their
blatant terrifying shriek shat-
tered the silence . . . Frankie
rammed a new belt into the
voracious gullet of the machine-
gun . . . The whole mountain
slope before them rose up en
masse and rolled up the incline
... It came — a sea of scream-
ing, shrieking, yelling human-
ity waving rifles and lances.
Wave on wave it came; wave
on wave on wave . . .
Jesus Christ ! exclaimed
Frankie.
Thou shalt not kill, mumbled
Reh. Lord, forgive us that we
are about to do.
Joe hit his lip in terror; his
grip tightened on the trigger
. . . for up they came, wave on
wave. Like the infinite waves
of the sea they came . . . Like
the infinite waves of the sea
smashing themselves on the
rocky shores of the headlands
. . . crashing, recoiling, surg-
ing, splashing, reforming,
smashing, retreating, and com-
ing back, returning again,
again, again and again . . .
Frankie patted the gun af-
fectionately: Gerty, ole gal,
don't fail us now . . . Okay,
kid, he nodded, chest high an’
cut it loose!! And Gerty spit
death — a hot seering death that
met the waves head on. The
shock of death met the shock of
humanity! humanity recoiled;
flesh and blood are only flesh
and blood. The first wave
broke . . . and the second . . .
and the third . . . and the
fourth . . .
The Lord is my shepherd . . .
Muttered Reh as he dragged
another ammo-can into place
... I shall not want . . . Joe
clenched the gun so tightly his
hands and arms ached; Frankie
burned his hand on the red-hot
muzzle of the 50 caliber. He
spit on the barrel; the spittle
vanished in a hiss of steam.
Sonofabitch’s gittin’ hot! he
observed casually. Joe didn’t
hear him; he was numb with
fear. All he felt was the kick
of the chopper in his hands; all
he saw was the dancing, shriek-
ing yellow faces as they ap-
peared momentarily in his
sights only to disappear under
the lethal spray to be replaced
by others — there was no end to
them; all he heard was the
blood-curdling battlecry of the
onrushing foe, the hacking
cough of the gun and the agon-
ized moan of the dying. ‘Dirty
Gerty' did her horrid task well.
Like a little old woman she held
her conservation; only she
spoke the language of death
. . . The fifth wave broke
against the redoubt and fell
hack . . . Once again the trum-
pets blared, then the foe was
gone — vanished as quickly as
they had come . . . The hill was
strangely silent . . .
Reb broke the stillness: The
righteous shall never be re-
moved ; and the wicked shall
not inherit the earth, he said.
Amen, Frankie finished as he
collapsed wearily into the snow,
Amen !
We licked ’em! Joe ex-
claimed exultantly, still grip-
ping the handles of the gun.
(Continued on Page 25)
8
Spring 1955
LORNA’S PAGE
The Original Thinker
He was a mind.
He sat above the top of everything
And saw as far as he could.
But it was a narrow seeing.
We are all limited,
lie was a mind.
And his thoughts spiralled through the air
And were carried by the wind.
They drifted and fell.
Mostly they settled softly
Into concavities,
But some perched precariously
On the worn convexities.
The parent mind grew on;
Alone, aloof, hut related intimately with everything.
He became felt;
His thoughts were feelers,
And they were felt.
Each thought connected invisibly to the source.
His mind grew multicolored in its perceptions.
It saw every angle.
Every incongruity.
So it realized the inherent wholeness.
The balance and the pattern
That was never completely unfolded.
As were his thoughts.
So he was:
Under, beside, within.
He realized every facet of very known conception.
He was adored.
He was worshipped and loved.
Feared and hated.
He was thought to create the new.
He only perceived the old from a diffeerent angle,
It was enough.
Water Baby
He slithered through the net
And eluded make-believe,
Slender tentacle of seeming gold.
Slid down the shining wet
That splashy fish things cleave,
And darted swiftly from the fishy mold.
Peered trustingly around,
Touched the living and the dead;
Flickered through the shadows like a light.
Brushed the sharp-edged sound,
Wondered as he bled,
How the sadness and the pain could look so bright
Then he glided from the sight,
Sank to meet his sandy bed,
And let the water trickle on his hurt.
Whole now he rose,
Met once more the fishy pose,
And began again
To wave his trusting little fin
Of shining gold.
The Television Set
The sun’s hold shining pate
Was just disappearing
Behind the mountain’s rim
When
“Be cpiick. It's getting late”
So intent on hearing
The lovely television things begin.
So
They watch ecstatically
Passion of torpor and release
From thinking, doing, being even, there;
As
Night comes murkily.
Tiptoes with half-bent knees
To crouch softly around the glowing square
Until
A bug-eyed staring one.
The last that’s left,
Turn a switch right
Off, and
Then it’s done.
The glassy square’s bereft
Of light,
With
Only a vacant stare
As the darkness
Moves in.
9
Quarterly
Erwin Pally
TAKE ME TO THE I
The new Quarterly editor-in-chief makes his third
consecutive appearance in the magazine. He is a junior.
Billy stood quietly at the
doorway for several mom-
ents watching his father
who was lying on the couch
reading the Sunday Times, then
he walked hesitantly towards
him anil stopped in front of the
couch. Harvey Ornstein did not
hear him. The boy’s heart began
to beat quickly and he felt warm
and uncomfortable, as he lis-
tened to his father’s heavy
rhythmic breathing, and he did
not know whether to stay or
leave but then it was too late
for Harvey noticed him.
“Daddy.”
Harvey put the paper on his
stomach with a quick, impa-
tient gesture, noticing the slight
tremor in his voice and wonder-
ing why his hands always
seemed to tremble whenever he
spoke to him. “What do you
want?”
“Daddy,” the boy spoke
trembly, quickly as though he
were afraid of being interrupt-
ed. “Daddy, can we go to the
park this afternoon, you, me
and mommy?”
“We’ll see.”
“Why can’t we go, why can t
095
we :
“C’mon Billy. I didn’t say we
couldn’t. Well see after din-
ner.” Like Eliot, he’ll be, just
like Eliot.
“Aw, we never go anywheres.
Why is it we never go any-
wheres any more?”
Harvey looked at his son
carefully, he looked at the
grey eyes that peered out
through the little horn rimmed
glasses, small grey eyes thev
were, and when he didn't have
his glasses on they became
strained and tired and they
watered. He put the paper
down on the floor and gently
picked up his young son and
put him on his lap, placing a
big, strong, hairy hand over the
little boy’s narrow shoulders
and with the other hand he pat-
ted his head. The boy began to
cry.
“Now Billy, you’re getting
too old for that, a boy seven
years old doesn't cry.”
“Em not seven yet,” he said
through his tears.
“But you will be in another
month,” said his father as he
continued to cover the boy’s
head with his strong right
hand.
The boy began to wipe his
10
Spring 1955
PARK
eyes with the front of his shirt
sleeve. Harvey finished the job
with a handkerchief. Then he
took out a half dollar and
pressed it in to the boy's palm.
“Now you wash up so no one
will know you were crying.
Then go down to Dewey’s and
get yourself an ice cream cone.
And you can keep the change.
O.K.?”
The hoy nodded and climbed
off the couch and ran upstairs
into the bathroom, leaving his
father sitting on the couch,
staring off into space.
In the bathroom the boy
washed his face carefully. He
didn’t wash his hands because
they were not dirty and it was
stupid to if they weren’t dirty.
No one would know. He put the
towel back on the rack after he
dried himself and then put his
glasses back on. He got up on
the stool and looked in the mir-
ror. His eyes were still red and
anyone could tell he was crying.
He got off the stool and put his
hand in his pocket and felt the
half dollar; and suddenly he
began sobbing again, uncon-
trollably. He locked the bath-
room door and tried to stop
crying hut the more he tried to
stop the harder he cried. He
was glad the bathroom was way
upstairs ’cause that meant they
couldn’t hear him but his moth-
er might ’cause she was in the
kitchen reading and the kitchen
was right under the bathroom.
She was always reading books,
she was nice, she smelled nice
too and she was always reading
books — why did she always —
and they hardly ever stood in
the same room together and if
they did and they stood there
too long there would be loud
noises and that would make him
cry but he shouldn’t because
he was almost seven and that
was too old to cry. He ran the
faucet so they wouldn’t hear
him and pretty soon he stopped
crying and he turned the faucet
off. It was had to cry. Even
though he wasn’t seven yet. But
he almost was and if he let
himself cry now, then next
month when he was really sev-
en he’d still be crying and that
would be bad. It was bad to
cry. Even Daddy said so and
he knew because he knew
everything because he was so
big and he shaved like Uncle
Eliot but Daddy was bigger but
Uncle Eliot knew funny things
and they both shaved — Ma nev-
er shaved except sometimes her
legs but that was different and
that don't count — women don’t
shave. That’s funny men do
and women don’t except their
legs sometimes and that don’t
count — Daddy had a rough
beard and it hurt when he used
to rub his cheek next to it —
Uncle Eliot’s never hurt — but
not so bad now like when he
was smaller, it used to make a
big red mark all over his cheek
and it really hurt but it was
worth it ’cause Daddy always
played with him then, when he
was smaller, piggyback and
wrestling and the winner could
stay up a half hour later after
supper.
The boy felt his smooth cheek
and began to cry once again,
big sobs that almost choked in
his throat; then after a while
he stopped and he began to
suck his thumb and he felt bet-
ter. He shut off the water faucet
and went downstairs into the
kitchen where his mother sat
waiting for him expectantly.
On the table was a book. It was
opened somewhere in the mid-
dle and there were passages
that were underlined. She had
the same delicate features as
those of her son.
“Where were you, honey?”
“Upstairs playing in my
room.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, sorta.” He crawled
upon her lap and fingered the
pages of the book. “Is it good?”
“Yes sweetheart, it's very
good.”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh,” she paused, “People.”
“Like us?”
“Pretty much like us, all
people are partly alike, honey.”
“Why don't you shave?”
Miriam smiled, “Too much
trouble.”
“No, really why?”
“I don't have a beard.”
“Oh. Do you love me?”
She put her arms around her
11
Quarterly
young son and drew him to her
bosom. Her voice was husky.
“Of course I do sweetheart.”
“Why don’t you read in the
living room with Daddy?”
“Well. I. ah . . .”
“There’s better lights in
there. You’re going to ruin
your eyes. You always tell me
to read where there’s better
lights.”
“Oh sweetheart.” She hugged
him once again, this time tight-
er and longer. When she re-
leased him he climbed off her
lap and stood next to her and
asked, “Why won’t Daddy take
us to the park?”
“Daddy's tired.”
“He’s always tired.”
“He works hard.”
“He slept yesterda y — all
day.” The boy paused, his little
forehead wrinkled in thought.
Miriam watched him as he
framed sentences in his mind,
picking some, rejecting others
the way a writer scratches out
the word that will ruin the de-
sired effect. She loved to watch
him stand in that pose; there
were times when she felt that
what was going on in his mind
was the most important thing
in the world. Finally he spoke.
“Why is it, ma, why is it we
never go anywhere together? 1
mean really why, ma?”
“We do, honey. Didn’t we go
to the park last Saturday?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that. I
mean all of us, Daddy too.”
She lit a cigarette quickly, at
the same time avoiding his
searching little eyes. “Billy, go
over and tell Uncle Eliot that
dinner will be ready in fifteen
minutes.”
“You think Uncle Eliot
will?”
“Will what?”
“Take me to the park.”
“It’s Julia's birthday today.
I think they have tickets to the
concert this afternoon.”
“Ah. she’s a jerk. I don’t
like her. '
“Why?”
“She’s a girl.”
“I mean really why?”
“She’s a girl."
“Don’t you like girls?”
“Nah. they stink.”
“I'm a girl.”
“No you’re not, you’re a
mother.”
“Why else don’t you like
her?”
“Because she’s always mak-
ing off how much she likes me
but she don't mean it. And all
the time her and EIncle Eliot
were here last week they were
always hiding in corners and
gigglin’ and smoochin’; she
was making EIncle Eliot act
foolish. She’s a jerk. He better
not marry her.”
“Do you have any ideas who
he should marry? Why don’t
you look around?”
“Grandma says he’s too
young and not settled enough.
She says he’s never going to
settle. She said when Grandpa
was young he used to be a
little crazy just like Uncle Eliot
only in those days you couldn’t
afford to be crazy. She says in
those days you worked so hard
you had no time to think how
crazy you were. That’s what
she said. Is everyone crazy,
9”
ma :
“No honey, just enough to
be interesting. Incidentally,
where did you hear all this?”
“Grandma was talking to
Aunt Beatie.”
“And you were eavesdrop-
ping. Is that nice?”
“No I wasn’t. I was playing
hide and seek and I was hiding
behind the couch waiting for
them to come and find me. On-
ly they never came.”
“Maybe you forgot to tell
them you were playing.”
“Maybe, I don’t remember.”
“Go tell Uncle Eliot to come
over.”
“Maybe he will?”
“What?”
“Take me to the park.”
PART TWO
Eliot Silver lay comfortably
on his back on the living
room couch, his thick black hair
across his forehead some get-
ting in his eyes and every now
and then he would automatic-
ally push it back with his hand
only to have it fall again. The
phonograph was playing Prince
Igor and he listened intently,
wriggling his toes in time to
the music; one of his toes stuck
through a hole in his stocking.
Mrs. Silver came into the liv-
ing room from the kitchen, a
woman over fifty, small plump
with the same thick black hair
as her son, only well groomed.
She was wearing a blue apron
around a cotton dress that had
(lowers all over it. She observed
her son carefully with some
concern if not distaste. “You’re
having dinner next door, have
you forgotten?”
“The prospect of food 1 nev-
er forget." replied the young
man as he continued to wiggle
his toes in time to the music.
“Then get dressed. Why must
you wallow around in that fil-
thy robe. You should have
thrown it away long ago. You’d
think we were beggars without
a piece of bread to eat the way
you go around.”
“So I'll be a beggar.”
“Don't be funny. And throw
it away. Soon the health de-
partment will he here.”
“I like it, it’s comfortable.”
“With you anything is com-
fortable. If I gave you a burlap
(Continued on Page 29)
12
Si’KING 1955
This is Madeleine May's first Quarterly story. She is
an editorial editor for the Collegian and is a student news
editor in the university's News and Publications office. She
is a junior in history.
IftcCiia
Iftadel
eine
a\j
You could see the heat. It
was in little blue and red
blobs which came together
and hanged apart with a
crazy jagged rhythm. They hit
you. leaped inside, and worked
their way out as moist, colorless
drops. Their weight was un-
bearable— they bore down on
the tight muscles of her body
and loosened them. She felt the
strong tendons being forced in-
to taut fibers.
Once in the dining room, the
furor of the heat could not he
so free. It was controlled by
the clean white table cloths,
the shining silver, and the tall
glasses of ice water. But even
the table cloths got soiled, the
silver lost its shine as it
was used, and the glasses
were drained in quick, greedv
gulps. She refilled them as
quickly as possible. The girl
seemed to thrive on the heat.
Her speed increased with the
same intensity as the glasses
were emptied. It became al-
most an obsession to her. If
she saw an empty glass her one
ambition was to keep it filled;
this was efficiency.
“M iss, oh Miss, could you
please hurry our order a little
because we want to make the
concert.”
“Yah, well, I try; big rush
tonight . . .” and Maria quick-
ly worked her way around the
table, clearing the plates off
and making the white table
cloth as clean as possible. Her
white uniform revealed the
work she had been doing.
Stains of French dressing and
gravy disturbed the whiteness.
Perspiration was evident on her
pale forehead and her dark
hair had lost its usual confine-
ment from the bun pinned at
the nape of her neck. The col-
or of her dark eyes was clear-
er than usual in contrast to her
pale skin. With tense hurried
movements of her tall straight
body she piled all the dishes
together on the tray, scraped
the leftovers, and bent down to
pick it up. She could not lift
it. She got up. rearranged
some of the dishes; and one
slipped off. making a shrill
clatter. It was only a small
plate, but the noise startled her
and people turned to stare.
Once more she bent down and
with a firm grasp, picked up
the tray and balanced it on her
shoulder. Making her way
through the people, who were
impatiently waiting for tables
and fanning themselves with
the menus, she pushed her way
through the kitchen door.
Quickly she was absorbed by
the mad hot wave that swirled
through the kitchen. She threw
the plates off the tray, trying to
do it faster than her arms
would allow but still keeping a
strong grasp on the edge of the
tray. Motion was everywhere
around her — arms flying, trays
banging and dishes clattering.
It was a supreme test of human
speed ; everyone in the kitchen
a contestant for time.
“Ordering, two veal, von
lamb,” she shouted.
“Put your plates up Maria,”
Sam said in a voice which was
startling for its calmness. “Just
wait your turn girls,” he said,
“and you’ll all get there; con-
cert doesn’t start ’til eight
o’clock.”
It was terrible to have to
stand in line when all those
people were out there waiting;
if only they knew, but they
would never see the kitchen.
She forced herself to lean
against the counter, drummed
the table with her fingers, and
hummed softly, trying to slow
down the accelerated motion
which rushed through her
body. It was then that her gaze
met Walter’s. He seemed to be
the only person in the kitchen
completely unaffected by the
heat. With controlled calmness
he stood by the dishwashing
machine and dried the silver,
wiping each piece carefully but
( Continued on Page 33 )
13
Quarterly
Five Poems
Barbara Steplar
To Emily Dickinson
You’ve loved them all biographers say —
From father to your brother —
I soon expect the next account
Will have you wanting mother!
Intellect . . .
All of art,
How well you recite it.
But isn’t it sad,
That you can't incite it?
To a Nose of Brown
Plebian!
Close thy fickle, fouled mouth!
Those watery queries slithering —
From thy sneering, snorting snout
Are his, from last year’s old exam!
Trials
Dave, Al, Ed, Joe;
Smoke; gin; make it slow.
Books; looks; neck; pet;
Sigh; cry; fry; fret;
Bleach; bra; figure thinner.
Paper due, what’s for dinner?
1 + 1 = 3
I cry!
Why?
Because 1,
/ called you liar, cheat and fool.
Then you.
You called me cruel!
14
Spring 1955
Traffic Lights and Strawberry Sodas.
to feel left out. but I chalked it
up as a private joke. And that
idea was to persist for the next
ten minutes. I’ve since given
up trying to tell what people
are thinking; people just never
are what you believe them to
be. All you ever get to see is
one tiny facet of the stone, and
even then most of what you see
is the glitter. It takes an ex-
pert to tell a zircon from a dia-
mond, and I guess twenty
some-odd years doesn't qualify
you.
I wouldn't want you to get
the idea I didn’t know my way
around. I’d been in then for
over two years and after that
length of time you’ve seen quite
a bit of the world and the peo-
ple in it. What’s the old cliche:
from death to dishonor? Well,
that’s about it. But I’ll be
damned if I expected what was
to come.
McMullin had launched into
another jazz bit, and was ac-
tually phrasing out triple in-
verted chords without a sheet
of music. It reminded me of
Lennie Tristano, when he first
started recording, but the
sounds were much fuller and
more fluid. He stopped again,
taking out a pack of cigarettes.
“Want a weed? I'm buy-
ing.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I reached out in front of me
and slipped one from his pack.
It hit me like a bomb. For the
first time in my life I was hold-
ing a piece of paper filled with
the dry, crumpled leaves of the
marijuana plant ... a “reefer”.
I sat there and looked at it. No
wonder McMullin played so
well. The whole world seemed
to stop in its tracks. It was un-
bearably quiet.
Now, you know, I wouldn’t
tell this to just anybody who
came along. People have some
queer ideas about marijuana,
and most of them would
sit there and glare at you if
you told them anything like
this. Then at the first oppor-
tunity they’d leave. Public
opinion sure is funny.
I looked up from the reefer,
still held tight in my sweaty
hand. Two men sat staring at
me . . . two complete strangers.
No longer were McMullin and
Floyd just a couple of ordinary
guys. They were now two
tense, eager men . . . They were
waiting for me to make a move.
From here on out. I’d appre-
ciate it if you didn’t ask me
why. The truth of the matter
is, 1 just don't know.
I lifted my arm and put the
reefer into my mouth without
a single emotion ; no excite-
ment, no wonder, no fear, no
nervousness. I just lifted my
arm and put the thin, tan cig-
arette between my lips. Then
I looked at Floyd.
“Got a light?”
The world started to speed
up again. Joe Floyd pulled a
book of matches out of his
breast pocket and struck one.
He came to his feet and crossed
the room, cupping one hand
around the burning match so it
wouldn’t go out. He held it be-
fore my face.
“Here.”
I took a long, deep drag in-
to my dry mouth, with the in-
tention of blowing it right out,
but instead 1 drew it deeply in-
to my lungs . . . half expecting
the sky to crash in. It didn’t.
I waited. It still didn t. I blew
the smoke out and tried to fig-
ure the situation. Here I was
( Continued from Page 6)
... in a room in which I’d nev-
er been, smoking marijuana,
and (McMullin had started
again) listening to the best live
piano I had ever heard. 1
stopped trying to figure the
situation.
Half the reefer had turned
into pale smoke and an odd
aroma seemed settling about
the room. It’s hard to describe
exactly what it was like. Sort
of like the fog of sweetly burn-
ing maple leaves on a late fall
evening, only this fog seemed
to come straight down. And
once you’ve had one whiff of
this scorched-cinnamon smell,
you can never forget it.
And you recognize it any-
where; in bars, pool halls,
night clubs, you name it. You
know, I delivered mail once
during a Christmas rush and
one of my stops was a small,
back-street beauty parlor.
There it was. Surprised the hell
out of me. Well. I’ll get back
to the music room.
Half the reefer bad gone up
in smoke and I hadn't felt a
thing and was I amazed. May-
be my physical condition or
something? Boy, did that do
wonders for the old ego. I
savored the thought for a few
moments. It made me smile. I
decided to stop smiling. My
face wouldn’t move. So I
reached up with both hands
and pulled the corners of my
mouth back down. When I let
them go they popped right back
up into another smile. This on-
ly made me smile more. I
looked from McMullin to Floyd.
They were grinning like Ches-
hire cats . . . ruby red lips on
pasty white faces. All the colors
in the room were beginning to
become highly exaggerated.
15
Quarterly
You know what I thought of
when I looked at those two hap-
py faces ? ? A school minstrel
in a segregated Southern town,
you know, negro end men all
made up in whiteface. I
laughed real hard at this.
McMullin stood up.
“Let’s go for a walk in the
park.”
As far as I could remember
there wasn't any park around
there, but it seemed like an ad-
mirable idea. Joe got up, held
the door open for us, and with
McMullin in the lead, we float-
ed off down the corridor, up
the stairs, past the sleeping girl
at the check-out desk, through
the open door, finally drifting
softly to rest on the asphalt of
the parking lot.
There wasn't the slightest bit
of doubt about it at all. I was
experiencing the feeling of be-
ing two people at the same
time. Part of me was a con-
trolled and conscious creature,
fully aware, and capable of re-
acting to any sudden situation.
But the other half! Freed
completely from the strain of
having to decide anything,
could drift about in whatever
dream it wished, and did it
wish! It made walking . . . float-
ing, running . . . gliding, and
all kinds of fancied day-dreams
splendidly believable. Nothing
at all mattered to this carefree
mind; least of all truth. If
there were no park in reality,
then, by all means, we would
have none of reality . . . and we
were in the park.
And a more glorious park
never existed! It was filled
with the sounds of birds never
before heard, the roars and
growls of beasts who had never
walked the earth. Each blade
of grass stood independently
and brilliantly green, and each,
defiantly striving to resist the
grazing breezes, bent and
bowed before them. It was a
fairyland of color, and we
strolled its pathways for over
an hour, until, quite abruptly,
the contentment vanished from
McMullin’s face.
“It’s gone.”
I looked around and so did
Floyd. McMullin was right. We
stood beside the Post Exchange
Warehouse, in a patch of grass
dried brown from the excessive
heat. Reality stank like hell.
In the weeks that followed, I
became closer to McMullin and
Floyd. Off duty we were in-
separable buddies. Mac and
Joe taught me to tap a few
rhythms on a mambo drum and
I surprised myself by getting
to be fairly clever at them. But
I never worked as hard at be-
ing perfect as Mac did. Once
that kid had a new chord in
his mind he wouldn’t stop
working with it till he had com-
pletely mastered its use. In
fact, Mac was that way about
everything. Remember the fa-
tigues that I mentioned? Well,
M ac had every pair that he was
issued in basic training. Now,
if you’ve never put any time in,
that doesn’t mean much ; but
when you think of how close
men live in the service . . . well,
there’s always someone borrow-
ing a fatigue jacket, and you
usually end up doing the same,
then a few guys are transfer-
red . . . Before you know it, no
one has more than one or two
jackets with his own name on
them. It happens to everyone.
Everyone except McMullin, that
is. Once Mac laid his hands on
something he just never let it
go. Real possessive, that guy.
For all his stinginess, though,
I couldn’t help being attracted
to him. He had a true feeling
for his friends. He was one of
those guys you felt you could
count on in a pinch. You just
can’t help liking a guy like that.
But more than friendship at-
tracted me to M ac. I think it
was mostly his music. Mac nev-
er seemed to tire of explaining
his feelings and how he ex-
pressed them in sound. His
music seemed to be an exten-
sion of his personality and, not
surprisingly, he strongly dis-
liked any criticism of it, even
inattention. And I got so I
didn’t blame him for it at all.
Mac rarely played the piano in
the company dayroom, but
when he did. I was as angry as
he when someone interrupted.
I got pretty wrapped up in his
music.
On duty as well as off. he
was a hard worker, and he pro-
duced quality, too. Working as
a draftsman in the service is no
picnic.
Mac was the type that has a
compulsion to tell you his life
story in one installment, and all
of it the first time you were
alone with him. I suppose every-
one is like that to a degree, only
most people control themselves
a little better. Mac didn’t even
try.
One Sunday afternoon we
took one of our little trips to
the library in my car and Mac
found himself with a captive
audience.
16
Spring 1955
“I’m from Cal you know,
man; near Berkeley. You ever
been there? No? Well, except
for the humans tromping
around, it’s great country . . .
especially in the summer. My
father and me go yachting a
lot in the summer. Man, you
should see our yacht; it’s quite
the thing. Got it brand new
two years ago. I guess I should
explain. I don't have any real
father. I was a charge of the
state when I was younger and
I was always being shipped
from one family to another.
The state pays ’em pretty good
and everybody on the coast is
looking for some easy dough.
They weren’t set for what they '
got in my case, I suppose. I
was in a lot of trouble all the
time . . . always running away
from home the minute they
took their eyes off me.
But I’ve come to think of the
last guy as my father, my true
father. Man, he’s about the best
Joe you’d ever want to meet.
Always has a smile on his face,
and no matter what kind of a
scrape I got myself into, he
never chewed me out, not once.
I guess that’s why I stayed with
him so long. You know, man,
he even caught me smoking
weed once, when I just turned
fourteen. He never said a word
to me. Just looked at me kinda
funny like. It wasn’t till last
year I found out he’s on a her-
oin kick himself. I suppose
that’s why I never ran away
from him. He’s always been so
damn tolerant.”
“You got a mother? I mean,
is he married?”
“Yeah, he was when I first
went to live with him. But she
left him after I had been there
about a year and he never told
me why. I was sure that the
children’s board was going to
take me back to the orphanage
and I hated the place, so one
day I asked him. You know
what he said, man? He said if
I didn’t want to go I could stay
there on the estate without any-
one knowing a thing, so you
can be damn sure it didn’t take
me long to make up my mind.
He’s been my father now for
over seven years and there
hasn’t been one day I can say
1 regret. He even bought me a
car when I turned eighteen.
What do you think of a guy
like that, huh?”
“Pretty great, if you ask me.
Not many guys would have
kept you around once their
wife left. You were lucky, all
right. He must be loaded, with
an estate and yacht and all.”
“Yeah, he is. Got most of it
gambling in L.A., I think.”
We pulled into the parking
lot and I squeezed my Packard
between a couple of Jeeps.
Every time I parked there I
caught myself wondering who
owned all the cars parked out-
side. The owners sure weren’t
inside. The place was always
like a mortuary. Smelled that
way, too. The girl behind the
desk must have had a florist for
a father. The lobby was always
full of cut flowers, and not one
of them was a nice odorless
camelia.
We went quickly downstairs.
I thought we were going to go
to the music room again, but
instead Mac opened the door to
the children’s room and I fol-
lowed him in and looked
around.
The same books that I had
seen before were still in their
places on the half-size table.
Mac pushed them aside and we
sat down on the little table and
lit up our sticks. It didn’t
take as long for me to feel the
effects this time. It seemed that
I was departing on practically
the first drag. I noticed a chair
and wondered why I was sit-
ting on the table. Mac looked
sort of guilty, too. We raised
ourselves from the table and
tried to squeeze into two of the
little chairs. It was a struggle,
believe me, but after a few lur-
ches this way and that, we were
in. And it seemed completely
natural.
“Good thing the teacher
didn’t catch us sitting on the
table. She sure doesn’t like
that.”
“Um. We better read our
books like she said.”
We both picked up books
from the pile on the table at
our knees and peered into them.
I had difficulty reading mine.
It wasn't that I couldn’t see the
words; it was just that I didn’t
know what some of them meant.
I began to read out loud.
“See . . . Jack . . . run. Jack
. . . runs . . . away. I see . . .
Jack . . . run. He runs ... fa
. . . fast”.
Mac was watching me, hang-
ing on every word. And I
knew why, too. This was one
of the best stories I’d ever read.
I just couldn’t wait to see where
Jack was running.
“Jack . . . runs . . . to . . .
the . . . wat . . . wa . . .
wat . . .”
It was no use. I couldn’t
read the last word. Mac
dragged his chair over beside
mine, peered intently over my
shoulder for a few' moments at
the word, gave up, and turned
back to his own book. I re-
turned to my studies and after
struggling with a few more
pages, began to get better and
better. It wasn’t too long be-
fore I was sailing right along.
1 decided that this book was
much too easy after all, so I
turned and picked one from the
bookshelf by the wall. I read
17
Quarterly
this one to myself.
“Jack and Jean went for a
walk in the woods. They were
going to gather some pretty
flowers for their mothers.”
I smiled. This was more like
it. Nothing like sex to spice up
a story.
“Jack and Jean went up the
path. Jack took Jean’s arm.”
I laughed right out loud.
This was too much. There was
going to be a rape on the next
page and 1 was the only little
reader in the country that knew
it. Think of it, I told myself,
parents send their kids to gram-
mar school without ever realiz-
ing that the authors of these
thin primers write dirty stories
between the lines.
By the time the high wore
off, I think I’d read every book
in the place, and so had Mac.
This time I was the first one to
awaken from the dream, but I
didn’t say anything; I just
watched.
MacMullin tried to turn a
page. Have you ever seen a
very small boy turn a page, get-
ting two or three at a time?
Well, that’s what Mac was do-
ing, or should I say trying to
do. I looked at him and
laughed and laughed.
Suddenly he snapped the
book closed and without lifting
his eyes, spoke to me in a small,
thin-sounding voice.
“Look, man. Don't you ever
laugh at me again. Hear? Just
don’t ever laugh at me again.
If you do I'll kill you.”
It wasn’t a threat; it was a
simple statement of fact, and it
took me by surprise. To be
blunt about it, he scared the
hell out of me. And I was
twice his size. See what I mean
about never really knowing peo-
ple? Some things you just nev-
er expect, no matter how sure
you are.
We drove back to the area
pretty quietly. Mac only spoke
to me once during the entire
trip.
“Look, man. I'm sorry for
how I bit your head off back
there. It was just that I was
remembering when I was small
and kicking around from one
family to another. It wasn’t
very pretty and I'm kinda
touchy about it.”
I looked at him for a long
time.
“O.K. Let’s forget about the
whole thing.”
The week went by slowly, but
there was a lot of work to do
and I tried to keep busy, but
most of the week dragged on.
You know how slowly time
passes when you’re waiting for
something. Well, eventually
Saturday rolled around.
M ac had gone into town
with my car to get another
supply of tea and Joe Floyd
and I sat in the company day
room and whiled the afternoon
away playing chess. Mac came
back just before chow with the
stuff, and after eating we set out
for a drive-in movie.
We got there just in time
for the first show. Maybe you
remember it . . . Lili ? Well,
it’s about a naive little country
girl who is running away to
the big city from the farm
where she lives. She sees a car-
nival and can’t resist watching
the puppets perform. She be-
comes so absorbed that she
talks to them, much to the de-
light of the crowd, who seem tc
sense her innocence.
I don’t remember much more
of the plot of the story, but 1
don’t believe I shall ever forget
the scenes of Lili and the pup-
pets. Anyway, by the time the
directors name had vanished
from the screen, three intoxi-
cated men sat quietly in their
stuffy car, breathlessly watch-
ing the complexities of the
highly exaggerated, swirling
colors that flickered before
their eyes.
I became conscious of a
shape within the patchwork and
after a bit of concentration, 1
managed to bring the vision be-
fore me into proper focus. It
was a little girl, a charming lit-
tle country girl, with a fresh-
scrubbed face and extra-neatly
braided pigtails. She was en-
tering timidly into the fringe
of a large crowd, which stood
watching a small puppet show.
She began to force her way
through the crowd toward the
stage, and I strained along with
her, as if my will could help
push apart the mob. She edged
up to the stage with open-
mouthed awe, and after watch-
ing for some time, spoke to the
nearest puppet, the carved fig-
ure of a fox. The sound of her
sweet and youthful voice sent
pangs of tender sympathy and
longing through me. In my
whole lifetime I had never felt
as close in emotion to anyone
as I felt for the tender and cap-
tivating little girl who was talk-
ing innocently with Reynard,
the fox. Many moods swept
me; love for Lili, hatred of the
sophistication of the crowd, ap-
preciation of the fantastically
colorful background, and a
sense of longing that the whole
world did not hold the simple,
and quite plain virtue which
was apparent in the story. I
sat silently, entirely enveloped
in my heightened sensitivity.
The jerk behind us blew his
horn. Mac, Joe, and I looked
at each other. I started the mo-
or and we crept quietly from
the theatre. Joe Floyd opened
the window to let the stale,
blue-thick smoke out. The
night air was growing cold and
18
Spring 1955
sharp.
I could tell you about such
times almost endlessly, because
in all, I must have been on the
stufT for over four months.
You can pack a lot of experi-
ence into that length of time. I
could tell you how a reefer can
destroy your powers of depth
perception. How Mac once sat
on a curbstone at a roadside,
looked over the edge at the
pavement no more than six
inches awav . . . and contem-
plated suicide. Or about the
time I sat at a lonely street cor-
ner with a strawberry soda in
my hand and watched the traf-
fic lights explode their greens
and reds in my eyes. It was
raining fairly steadily, so T
never did get to finish the
damn thing. I was concentrat-
ing hard on the lights, and be-
tween drinking and watching,
the tall glass would fill right up
again. Never seemed to change
its taste, though.
I could tell you about many
such times, hut it was the last
one that really counted.
The most vivid kick I was
ever on, and the one that made
me swear off. started on a drab,
overcast, Thursday night. Sum-
mer was coming on again and
the night seemed to be at-
tempting a trial run of heat.
However, it was doing better
with humidity, which it man-
aged to get up to the oppressive
level.
Because of the threatening
rain, and because the uniform
had changed to summer khakis
the week before, most of the
men were staying in the bar-
racks to conserve their freshly
starched uniforms. Most of
them had only taken them out
of the laundry a few days be-
fore. Here and there in the
barracks, a man shined his
shoes or polished brass, ready-
ing himself a little in advance
for the weekly Saturday morn-
ing inspection, but most of
them simply lay relaxing or
dreaming about the girl back
home and the possibility of
winning a three-day pass.
I looked down at Mac. He
was sitting on his foot locker
in his civies, his head bowed
almost in his lap.
I got up from where 1 lay
and walked over to Joe Floyd.
He looked up from the insignia
he was polishing. I sat down
and leaned over him to keep it
private.
“Have you watched Mac to-
night? He looks sad about
something. Do you think he's
in any trouble?”
“Nah. You haven’t known
him for as long as I have or
you wouldn’t worry about him.
He keeps his nose clean with
the orderly room.”
“No. I didn’t mean any
trouble around here. I thought
maybe at home. When I think
of the lousy times that kid
must’ve had when he was
young ...”
“Jeez, he didn’t con you with
that old pitch, did he? Listen,
that whole story is a line of
hull. He tried to sling it to me
a long time ago up at the
N.C.O. club, but we were drink-
ing and he got so bawled up in
the story he got it all screwed
around. All that guy’s looking
for is sympathy and somebody
to cry over him.”
“Well, if you think lie’s a
liar, why in God’s name do you
hang around with him?”
“Look, 1 don't think; I know.
And why do I hang around
with him? Ask yourself! Tea,
1 guess.”
I gaped at him. All a line
of bull? Tea? What did he
mean . . . ask yourself !
Thoughts about what Mac had
told me about himself whirred
about in my mind. All he
wanted me around for was a lit-
tle sympathy . . . and maybe
. . my car. I was beginning
to figure Mac out. Who was
Mac for? Mac. and only Mac!
It was as simple as that. The
only thing complicated it was
me. 1 was starting to think of
Mac as one of the few true
friends in my life.
“The facet and the stone.”
Joe looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go out to
the car and blast a couple.”
“O.K. Wait'll I get Mac.”
I wanted to stop him right
then, but he flipped his legs
over the bunk and walked down
the aisle. There was no sense
making a big scene out of it. I
was pretty depressed, anyway,
ft really didn’t make any dif-
ference.
The three of us went out in-
to the humid night and walked
slowly to the car. I guess we
were all busy thinking. We got
into the front seat and lit up. I
took a couple of tentative drags,
blew them out, and then sniffed
the warm fragrance bouncing
19
Quarterly
back from the windshield. I
felt I just had to say something
to Mac.
“You know, Mac, I’ve come
to the conclusion that you’re
nothing but a selfish crum . . .
all that crap about your fa-
ther’s yacht ... I think you're
a goddam liar, that’s what I
think.”
I had expected Mac to be at
least shocked or stunned. In-
stead he looked at me with a
malevolent anger that sent a
chill up my spine. It was a lit-
tle more than an ordinary chill,
too, because the smoke in the
car was beginning to have its
effect on me. As MacMullin
glared at me, his face was turn-
ing once again to pasty white,
sharply contrasting his shining
red lips. I began to regret
shooting off my mouth, but it
was a trifle too late for that.
The last words I heard that
night were MacMullin’s.
“Man, I think I’ll give you
a little lesson in watching out
who you call names at.”
He raised his arms above his
head. I glanced up at his
hands. He had contorted them
so that they looked crippled.
The skin stretched over them
was a pale, lifeless white. He
was grinning; his teeth glis-
tened. I began to have all sorts
of suspicions. He leaned over
and bit my shoulder hard.
Reality left me completely . . .
McMullin was a . . . ghoul. I
tried to scream. I couldn’t. I
stayed there for a second, fro-
zen in uncomprehending fear.
I pulled away from the crea-
ture and fought the door open.
I stumbled out of the car and
lurched over to a pine tree
nearby to catch my breath,
which was coming in short,
dry, gasps. McMullin slid from
the car after me, grinning. My
heart stood still ; I couldn’t
budge a muscle. He crept to-
ward me very slowly, rubbing
and squeezing his hands, and
still grinning. I tried hard, oh
so hard, to move my leg. It
moved. I stumbled, walked,
and then began to run. He
came right after me. I ran on.
Down the regimental street be-
tween barracks, over fences, my
heart pounding, pounding. I
stumbled again, looked back.
He wasn’t there any more. I
felt a bit of relief, then worse
fear. Where was he? I imag-
ined 1 could feel him about my
neck, his sharp teeth biting in-
to my flesh. I could hear him
laughing. I began to run again.
I must have run for hours. I
saw him in every shadow, be-
hind every tree. He loomed up
out of the darkness, laughing,
always laughing. I ran faster,
faster, faster. There he was!
No, over there, over here! I
stopped. I could run no more.
He was all about me. There
was no escape but unconscious-
ness. I took it.
When I awoke, the sun was
coming up. I am laying face
down in the parking lot beside
my car. The door was swung
open wide. I had sweat through
all my clothes, and when I got
up, the sand clung to me.
Sticky. Grainy. Friday, that’s
right. Thank God! It was my
day off-duty at headquarters.
It was surely after revielle. I
pushed the door of my car
closed and leaned on it for a
moment. I hadn’t ever been
this tired in my life. I started
lo stagger toward the Chapel.
Maybe the chanlain could get
me out of this mess. At least I
could rest there. I knew he
wouldn’t tell anyone. Maybe he
could even get me out of this
outfit. I never wanted to see
McMullin again, or hear his
piano, or ever smoke one of
those blasted things again. It
had been a long time coming,
but here it was . . . the Morn-
ing After . . . and in a big,
very big way.
Well, the chaplain heard my
story and I couldn’t have asked
for more understanding. He
got me on emergency leave or-
ders, had one of his assistants
gather my gear from the bar-
racks, and within the next three
or four hours had orders out
that transferred me to another
post, a few hundred miles away.
I don’t believe I’ve ever been
as grateful to one man, before
or since.
I had about four more
months to pull in the service
and they went by peacefully. I
even wrote a letter to Joe Floyd
letting him know where I was,
and giving him my home ad-
dress with an invitation to stop
by if he was ever in those parts.
After about a week, he an-
swered and told me all that had
happened. Roth Joe and Mac
had thought I’d gone AWOL,
and Joe said that he was sorry
that he didn’t try to stop Mac,
but that he did think I was
pretty strong with my language.
I couldn't remember everything
I said that night myself. Joe
even said that Mac felt bad
about how it all had turned out
and that it went further than
he had intended.
One bright morning, a big
mass of men burst from a
building waving discharges in
their hands, and I was one of
them.
I imagine you wonder why
I’ve told you all this. Well, you
see, I’d like your opinion on
something.
Yesterday I got a letter from
McMullin. He’s still in, but
he’s coming up to New York
(Continued on page 25)
20
A Portfolio
mm
Night . . .
whose pitchy mantle
the earth . . .
overveil'd
fi If ll 1
Spring 1955
Traffic Lights and Strawberry Sodas . . .
( Continued from page 20)
City on leave and he wants me
to meet him. So I've been won-
dering what to do. After all,
he said he was sorry for all that
happened and he’s promised
that it'd never be repeated.
Maybe for old times sake I
might even have one more blast
with Mac. I guess it could nev-
er hurt me . . . not just one
more . . .
Oh. what the hell, I can see
by your eyes that I’m not kid-
ding anybody but myself . . .
But what do you think you'd
do? Mac never let’s anything
go. not even a goddam fatigue
jacket.
Baptism and Extreme Unction...
( Continued from Cage 8 )
Shore did, Reb’s voice was
very matter of fact. A figure,
squirming through the snow on
his belly, came towards them.
Well, well, if it ain't Jojo, the
dog-faced boy. grinned Frankie.
He walks, he talks, he crawls
on his belly. Say a few words
to the crowd, Jojo!
Very funny. Baker growled.
Anybody hurt?
Depends which way yer look-
in’, Sarge, Frankie bantered.
Then he motioned toward the
kid. Joe was still clutching the
smoking fifty; his eyes were
fixed straight ahead ; sweat ran
down his face . . .
Okay, kid? the Sarge quer-
ied. Joe turned around and
stared at him, but he was look-
ing right through him.
Yeah, okay, he said. Yeah,
Fm okay.
Still scared?
Yeah, damned scared!! Joe
answered staring past the fig-
ure of the Sergeant. I never
saw a man die before — never!
Congrats, kid, you’ve been
baptized. Baker slapped him
heartily on the back. Reb’s
eyes flashed angrily.
Yeah, Frankie agreed, yer a
man now, kid.
He’s got a chance ta really
prove it. Baker spoke concern-
edly looking straight into the
empty stare of the kid. Then
he fixed his eyes on Frankie:
They’re bringin’ up mortars.
Stay put till they git the range,
then leap-frog it back up the
hill. When ya git ta the top —
if ya git there — stay put . . .
That’s as far as we go.
That's as far as we go?
Frankie repeated . . .
... In this world, Reb fin-
ished thoughtfully.
Maybe so, the Sarge glared,
but I ain't ready for the next
one yet. I’ll wait awhile; I
like it here! With that he
slithered off on his stomach.
Joe smiled weakly at Reb:
We'll git there, Reb, we'll git
there.
Shore, he answered; but his
voice was filled with uncertain-
ty-
Then the sea returned; it
struck the redoubt . . . but this
time the wave didn't break . . .
Gerty was silent.
II
The jeep hurtled madly down
the narrow winding road. It
bounced crazily from side to
side, its wheels spattering mud
LEAVE
JOYCE
AT
HOME
Also Hemingway.
Shakespeare and Homer
BUT—
Bring Yourself
University under-
grads interested in
winning a place on
next year's Quarterly
staff should contact
Editor-in-chief Erwin
Pally. Pally lives in
Greenough House,
QUARTERLY
MEMORIAL HALL
ROOM 1
25
Quarterly
and snow in all directions. It
roared insanely around corners
on two wheels; it swerved, slid,
and tipped, but finally righted
itself and hurried on. It struck
a glare of ice and turned
around several times; the driv-
er whipped the wheel around
violently; the jeep went jounc-
ing into a shallow ditch. Tex
shoved it into four-wheel drive
and came barrelling out. He
glued his eyes to the road
ahead.
Bet yer horse couldn’t do
that, Cicotti contended sarcas-
tically.
Ma hoss would nevah got
stuck inna fust place, Tex re-
torted . . .
Cicotti laughed. Hmm, I've
had rougher rides than this . . .
Yeh, Tex interrupted with a
grin, this one’s onny rough on
the seat . . . Ya don’t git any
presents with it.
Cicotti shut up. The jeep
struck a rock, careened wildly;
Tex pulled it back on the road.
They got Ni-chi-chi? he ven-
tured.
Dunno . . . Way I got it,
Ma jor sai< i th ey heat back five
assaults . . . Talkie conked out
when the sixth hit . . . Can’t
contact ’em . . .
Think they got ’em?
Not if I know Baker . . .
The jeep danced gaily up
over a small incline: Ni-chi-chi
was in view. There on the very
summit of the scarred peak,
where no one could possibly
overlook it, a miniature version
of the Stars and Bars, its mast
propped up by a pile of hastily
gathered boulders, flapped
proudly in the early morning
breeze.
That Reb’s flag?
Shore is! Cicotti breathed a
sigh of relief.
The jeep left the road and
tore up the backside of Ni-chi-
chi. It bogged down in the
snow and stalled. Tex floored
the accelerator; the wheels
spun; the rear-end swung from
side to side; it stalled again.
Sorry, Sarge, Tex apolo-
gized. Ah kin go down, but ah
cain't go up. Several figures
came running down the slope
towards them ; Baker was the
first one down.
Boy, Ed, am I glad ta see
you!! he exclaimed. He turned
to the others behind him: Git
that ammo up there just as fast
as ya can. We ain’t got all day.
Cicotti tossed him a talkie,
then ripped the canvas cover
from the rear of the jeep. The
figures snatched up the ammo-
boxes and struggled back up
the slope.
No medic? Baker queried, a
pained expression on his face.
Cicotti shook his head.
Couldn’t spare one . . . more
casualities than Carter’s got
pills! . . . An’ they’re still corn-
in' .. . How’d ya make out?
Like Jack the bear. We got
the honey, hut we got stung too.
Reb? said Tex.
Baker didn’t answer. Tex
rammed the jeep into reverse.
Ah’m git tin' yall a medic, he
growled. The jeep tore back
down the road.
Com’on Ed, Baker mumbled
uneasily, there’s somethin’ ya
gotta see . . .
The kid? he said. Baker
nodded: Mortar round . . .
The two sargeants clambered
up the hill, then they hellied
their way down to the redoubt.
Hissing and smoking ‘Dirty
Gerty’ lay in the snow; Frankie
was face down beside her. Reb
lay on his back staring sub-
limely towards the leaden
skies: a thin trickle of blood
crept from the corner of his
open mouth. The hardened Ba-
ker winced ; he fought back a
tear; his lips trembled. Baker
bowed his head: . . . For thine
is the Kingdom, the power, and
the glory forever, Amen. — he
said softly.
Cicotti had dropped beside
the kid. Joe was sobbing vio-
lently— great sobs that sent tre-
mors through his whole body.
I wanna go home, he wept. I
wanna go home!! Ed, please
lemmee go home ! !
Ed looked at Baker; Baker
looked at the kid, then at Ci-
cotti.
Okay, kid, he said, yer goin’
home . . . tamorra.
Cicotti nodded agreement.
Yeah, ya can, kid. he said.
Sure ya can . . . tamorra . . .
Ill
The sun collapsed wearily in-
to his bed behind the line of
purple hills ridging the west.
He yawned ; gazing momentar-
ily at his strato-cumulous ceil-
ing. he pulled the covers of
darkness over his head; he
tossed a hit, snuggled deeper
under the covers, and with a
protracted sigh fell into an ex-
hausted snooze. Imperceptibly
the silence of night settled heav-
ily upon the landscape. Once
the staccato gossip of a .50 cal-
iber chattered on the ridge to
the right, followed immediately
by the belch of a ‘burp’ gun
and the husky bark of several
Garands. Somewhere someone
stifled a cough or a sneeze.
They, too, became silent . . .
Somewhere in the vast expanse
of darkness a watch ticked soft-
lv • • •
Jus’ think, Ed, I’m goin’
home tamorra!
Sure ya are, kid. The voice
was patient and understanding.
Yer coinin', too, ain'tcha.
Ed?
Sure, Joe, sure. Yeah, I’m
cornin’ with ya.
Boy, we ll really live it up in
26
Spring 1955
’Frisco, won’t we, Ed? The
other voice was optimistic.
You bet, Joe, you bet we
will!
Drunk ev'ry night?
Ev’ry night, kid.
An’ women?
Plenny o’ women . . .
Great, huh?
Yeali. real great ... A watch
ticked quietly on and on.
Ten pas' three, kid.
Head’s killin’ me, Ed! Gim-
mee a slug o’ that morphine,
will ya?
I ain’t got no morphine, kid
. . not a damn hit.
Okay. Ed, don' get sore! You
ain’t sore?
Naw, kid, I ain’t sore ... A
watch ticked fiendishly in its
insane race with time.
Gotta cigarette, Ed? Dyin’
fer a drag . . .
Gave ya the las’ one, kid.
Sure ya ain’t got one more?
Yeah. Em sure.
Damn, sure could use a
drag . . .
I know, kid. Cicotti checked
his bolt; then once again he
peered into the blackness. There
was no moon.
Ed, it’s snowin’ . . .
Yeah, it is . . . sure, it is,
kid. The voice was patient,
very patient.
It’s snowin’, Ed, it’s snow-
in’ .. .
Yeah. Joe, it’s snowin’. Take
it easy, will ya?
Okay, Ed, yeah, okay . . .
But it's snowin’, snowin’ some-
thin’ fierce . . . Can't ya see it,
Ed ? . . . Lookit, lookit . . .
Easy, Joe, Com’on, ya gotta
take it easy, fella.
Sure, Eddie, sure ... I got-
ta take it easy . . . take it easy
. . . gotta take it easy . . . The
other voice rambled ; then there
was a moment of silence — a
cold, awkward silence.
Hey, Ed, gotta headache . . .
bitch of a headache! Gimmee
an aspirin, willya?
I tole ya, kid, I ain’t got no
SPC’s. I’ll git ya some first
thin' tamorra.
Sure, Ed, sure . . . But it
hurts . . . damn, it hurts . . .
like a tooth, only worse . . .
Hey, Ed, what time is it? Huh?
I can’t see mine . . . it’s too
dark . . . loo goddam dark . . .
Easy, kid, it’s quarter pas’
three. Just a coupla hours
more. Try an’ git some sleep,
will ya? Do ya good. The
voice was patient again.
Can’t Ed, . . . tried. Head
keeps wakin’ me up . . . keeps
heatin’, heatin’, heatin’, like a
goddam’ drum! ! ! ! Can't sleep,
Ed . . . won't lemmee! — The
other voice grew desperate,
then calmed completely — Still
snowin’, Ed?
Yeah, it’s snowin’ snowin’
somethin’ fierce.
See, I tole ya! Big flakes,
too, ain’t they? I can see ’em.
Sure ya can, kid. Great big
flakes — big and beautiful . . .
Ya see ’em, too, huh, Ed?
Sure.
Pretty, ain't they?
Yeh. real pretty . . .
Awful pretty . . . The other
voice trailed off into another
moment of silence — a strained,
terrifying silence, an ubiquitous
silence spasmodically violated.
Somewhere a bolt clicked ;
somewhere the hammering tick
of a watch blasted the stillness
like some rhythmic heater tim-
ing the oar-stroke of some lost
galleon cursing the sea of eter-
nity.
What time is it now, Ed?
Still can't see this goddam
watch . . .
Twentyta four, kid, twenty ta
four.
How much longer, Ed? How
much longer? . . . This head-
ache’s killin’ me! drivin’ me
bats! ! ! . . . Gotta git an aspirin
. . . Sure ya ain't got one, Ed?
I’m sure, kid.
Look again, Ed, I gotta git
somethin’ . . .
Kid, I ain’t got no SPC’s . . .
Com’ on, boy, lay still ... no
sense in gittin’ up. Lay down;
try an’ git some sleep . . .
Okay, Ed. okay! Ya ain't
sore, are ya, Ed? Are ya?
Nope, T . . .
. . . ain’t sore, are ya Ed?
Are ya?
Nope, kid, I ain’t a bit sore.
In the darkness someone
sneezed ; someone rammed a
clip home; still the watch licked
softly.
Cold, kid?
Yeah, colder ’an a hitch!
Sure could use ole Kimiko ’bout
now . . . What time is it, Ed?
Time yet?
Not quite, kid, Quarter o’
four . . .
Quarter of . . . Say, Ed . . .?
Yeah?
Did I ever tell ya . . .?
What about?
Marie . . .
Sure, kid, lotsa times. Quite
a girl, huh?
Yeah, lemmee tell ya ’bout
er . . .
Sure, kid, hut not now. Ya
shouldn’t be talkin’. Tell me
’bout ’er tamorra. Try an’
sleep, huh?
Can’t sleep . . . gotta do
somethin’ . . . head’s killin’ me
. . . Ed, do somethin’, will ya??
Drivin’ me bats — The other
voice was pleading, begging . . .
1 can’t, kid! I can’t do a
damned thing! Not a damned
thing. The voice was resigned
and helpless.
Morphine, Ed? Got any
morphine?
Can’t give it ta ya, kid; ain’t
got none!
Gone?
27
Quarterly
All gone. The watch ticked
quietly.
’Bout a weed? Gotta weed,
Ed?
I tole ya, kid. they’re all
gone . . .
Gone, too?
Yeah, all gone, too.
Everythin’s gone . . . Ain’t
nothin’ left . . . Not a . . .!!
Easy, kid, take it easy.
Okay, Ed . . . Take it easy
. . . Ev’rythin’s gone . . . Ain’t
nothin’ left . . . Member Marie?
. . . soft an’ sweet an’ beautiful
. . .? She loved me, Ed . . .
Sure she did. kid.
An’ loved ’er too, didn’t I?
Yeah, ya did.
Wonder what she’s doin’ ta-
night? Ya know, Ed?
Nope.
Lemmee tell ya: playin’
around with some joker!! She’s
no goddam good . . .
Easy, kid . . .
. . . She’s no good . . . Take
on anythin’ with pants . . . an’
money . . . No questions asked
. . . What time is it, Ed?
Five of.
Moonglow Club, anytime . . .
Still snowin’, Ed? Still snow-
in’, ain’t it?
Somethin’ fierce, kid.
Thought so . . . Loved ’er
though, Ed. No damn good an’
I loved ’er . . . Funny, ain’t it?
Yeah, real funny.
Why’d I do it, Ed? Tell me,
why ?
Got me. People do funny
things.
Four yet, Ed?
Almost.
Christ, Ed, I’m freezin’!
Colder ’an hell !
I know, kid. Take it easy,
will ya?
Sure . . . See the sun yet?
Uh-huh.
Head’s killin’ me, Ed . . .
Drivin’ me nuts! . . . Throb
bin’, throbbin’, throbbin’ .
Easy, boy, easy.
Gotta drink, Ed? Thirsty as
a bitch . . .
Sure, kid, justa sec. The
voice was very patient.
Thanks. Ed. thanks . . . Great
guy, real great guy. ain’tcha?
Yer okay yerself, kid. How
about tryin’ that sleep again?
Okay, Ed, sure . . . Four,
yet?
Just. Take it easy. Rest
awhile.
I’ll try; buzz when that as-
pirin gets here.
Sure. kid. anythin’ ya say.
’Night. Ed.
G’night, kid . . . G'night. fel-
la. A watch ticked on and on:
ticking, ticking, ticking, tick-
ing . . .
The sun awoke. Weary from
his previous day’s debauch, he
stuck a bleary, bloodshot eye
over the bleak and barren hills
for a moment; he went back to
bed, and. pulling the quilted
blankets of storm-clouds over
bis aching head, he slept it off.
About noon a soft breeze ush-
ered away his covers; and he
peered out onto a veil of soft,
chaste snow.
Hey, somebody here need a
medic ?
Little late, ain’tcha, buddy?
The corpsman examined the
lifeless form: Yeah, looks that
way. He’s had it, poor kid.
I watched im die . . . slow
an' painful. He kep’ askin’ for
morphine — he begged me for
morphine — an’ I couldn't give
it to ’im ... A whole goddamn
box o’ the stuff, an’ I couldn’t
give it to ’im! ! ... It just don’t
make no goddam sense . . .
Tough ! — The corpsman
shook his head compassionate-
ly— Christ! !
Yeah, real tough. Got a face-
ful o’ shrapnel from a mortar
round . . .
Messy stuff . . .
Yeah, he kep’ watchin’ fer
the sun . . . kep’ lookin’ at his
watch . . . kep' seein' things
. . . snow ... an ’e had nothin’
ta see with . . .
Poor kid!!
... A whole goddamn box o’
the stuff, an’ I couldn’t give it
to im ... It don’t make no
sense ... no goddam sense at
all . . . He hurled the morphine
syrettes violently down the
slope.
Easy, fella. Ya wanta crack
up yerself! Ya knew ’im pret-
ty well ?
Yeah, real well . . . name’s
Joe . . . Joe Cicotti, my kid
brother ... It don’t make no
goddam sense . . .
Cicotti swung the M-l up to
his shoulder; he stared down
the hill towards the grim coun-
tenance of Chi-chi as he adjust-
ed the liner in his helmet. He
turned slightly and gazed down
at the blanketed form. Cold,
callous, uncompromising Ed
Cicotti shook his head. The
hardened lines of his bewhisk-
ered face softened a little.
G’night, kid, he said softly.
(His voice was like the whis-
per of the breeze through the
sombre pines of a distant for-
est.) G’night, Joe, he whis-
pered, g’night.
Ni-chi-chi is a barren hill:
its slopes totally devoid of all
vegetation. What little there
had been has long since been
blasted away. Only the rocks
remain: massive granitic out-
crops that ridge the concave
summit and gaze frowningly
over the valley below. Only the
rocks remain, and man . . .
28
Spring 1955
Take Me to the Park...
bag you’d say that was com-
fortable too.”
“Good enough for the pota-
toes, good enough for me. I’m
a baby Rousseau.”
“Who?” She looked puzzled.
“Nobody important. He nev-
er made any money.”
“Money you don’t care?”
She stopped to think a moment
and then rephrased her ques-
tion. “You don’t care about
money?” The young man
smiled. She went on, “But the
thousand dollar fidelity set,
that you like.”
“You’re right. I’m a walking
paradox. Listen to the music.
They took “Kismet” from part
of that, now “Kismet” made
money. But when you go and
put words to music like that,
you spoil it.”
“Stop talking that nonsense,
will you and stop wiggling
your toes. Music, painting,
that’s all you ever think about.”
She turned to the high fidelity
set. “Sits there wiggling his
toes; the responsibility of a
two year old he has. Bill has
more sachel than him.”
The young man smiled.
“Now let’s not get hysterical.”
She turned on him quickly.
“Are you going back to college
next semester?”
“You asked me that seven
times in the last two days. I
told you, I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you go back?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.”
The music stopped, he contin-
ued wiggling his toes.
“Why don’t you go in the
Army then, and get it over
with?”
“Because every time I think
of the A rmy I wanna puke.”
“Don’t talk that way.”
“Then don’t ask me questions
I can’t answer, you know 1
can’t answer.”
“You have to do something.”
“Yes, yes I know that. For
god’s sakes don’t you think I
know that.”
“What does Edelman say?”
“Psychologists don’t say,
they listen.”
“For ten dollars an hour they
should say something, too.”
Eliot got up and turned the
record over, then he went back
to the same position on the
couch. “If more people would
listen instead of talking things
would be a hell of a lot better.”
He was wiggling his toes once
again.
“Don’t swear.”
“I wasn’t swearing, for
Christ’s sakes leave me alone,
will you.”
“Why must you listen to mu-
• 09?
sic. now :
The young man took a deep
breath and threw his arms up
in the air. “Why don’t you get
into the Gestapo. You’d do
fine.”
“You said you were going to
the concert with Julie. You’ll
hear music all afternoon.”
“Mother dear,” he thumped
his chest with the fingers of his
right hand, “I love music, I
adore music, I worship music.
That’s why I listen to it. It’s my
fetish.”
“It's unhealthy the way you
just lie around and do nothing
else. Why don't you read a
book.”
“I used to read all the time,
remember? You told me my
eyes would pop out from read-
ing so much so I stopped.”
“Just sitting around, look at
you. Don’t you ever shave anv-
more :
(Continued from Page 12)
“Too much trouble.”
“Just sitting around listening
and listening and listening — ”
“I know, don’t tell me. My
ears are gonna fall off.”
“Did you ever talk to Dr.
Edelman about it?”
“About my ears falling off?”
“Is that his idea, to sit
around all day and listen to
music? That’s a beautiful idea
for ten dollars an hour.”
The young man sat up quick-
ly and screamed, “I’ll pay you
back. I’ll pay you back every
goddamn penny; I swear I’ll
pay you back.”
The woman answered quiet-
ly, “You don’t have to yell.
What time are you picking up
Julia?”
He fell back on the couch.
“About two-thirty.”
“What a girl like Julia sees
in you I’ll never know.”
“Thank you.” He began to
wiggle his toes once again.
“For her birthday, her birth-
day; to a concert you’re taking
her and where are you going
to sit. up in the third balcony.
Beautiful place for a girl like
Julia.”
“She doesn’t mind, why
should you.”
“Negroes sit in the third bal-
cony.”
“Listen.” he was on his feet
now and yelling, “Let’s not kid
ourselves. I’ll let you throw the
crap around most of the time
but for once let’s not kid our-
selves.”
M rs. Silver sunk down on a
chair. “To your mother you’re
talking, your mother.”
“The only reason you object
to my sitting in the goddam
third balcony.” his voice was
quieter now but still as bitter,
“is because you’re afraid Julia’s
29
Quarterly
folks will find out." He began
pacing the floor, hands in the
bathrobe pockets. “And that
won’t look so good, will it.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
“No I won’t stop talking non-
sense. Listen for once and hear
for once, not just with your
ears.” He pointed his finger to-
wards her. “The son of Mr. and
Mrs. Nathan P. Sil ver sitting
in the goddam third balcony
with people who only make fif-
ty bucks a week; that won’t
look so good will it? They
might like music but the poor
bastards, all they make is fifty
bucks a week."
“Eliot, genug, enough all
ready.”
He was pacing the floor again
and shaking his head slowly.
“Course Nathan P. Silver, he
never went on relief and my
sister had to go to the store
with coupons to get milk. No,
that never happened, Nathan P.
Silver he never went bankrupt,
he never had a double mort-
gage on his home. That never
happened. My mother, she nev-
er worked in a bakery fourteen
hours a day; no, that never
happened.”
She began to cry quietly and
her heavy body shook in
spasms. He watched her in si-
lence and then walked to her
and knelt down beside the chair
and put his arm around her
shoulder as her big bosom
heaved up and down. She was
looking at the floor.
Finally he said softly, “Em
sorry, Pm sorry raa.”
She looked up at his face, the
thick black hair across his fore-
head, watched him push it
back, thought she saw tears in
his eyes but couldn’t be sure
because she could not see very
clearly herself. She touched his
cheek with her plump hand and
they stared at each other; and
for a moment, for a single si-
lent simple moment, she almost
had her son back.
The young man got up slow-
ly and went over to the phono-
graph and shut it off. Then he
went back to the couch and sat
down with his elbows on his
knees and his head in his hands.
“Elelle, get dressed, they’ll be
waiting for you.”
“Ah, ma. I hate even to go
over there. It’s such a mess. It’s
such a mess all over.”
“Not so bad.”
“Ma, nothing seems to be
happening with Dr. Edelman.
I go there. 1 talk; I still feel the
same way. I’m afraid, ma ; I
don’t know why but I just am.
I’m afraid to do so many
things like a little boy. 1 want
to be strong, ma; I want to be
a man but I’m not. I’m weak.
Harvey, he’s a man. He’s no
good, but at least he’s a man."
“Shah, go upstairs and get
dressed.”
“I don’t like to go over there,
ma.
“There are some things you
gotta try to do even if you don’t
want to.”
“I know; I'm trying ma, I
don’t wanna be this way.”
“I know.”
“It’s such a mess, such a
mess all over. That’s not a mar-
riage they got over there, it’s a
truce.
“Ah, mein kind , sometimes
to look too deep, it doesn't pay.”
“I have to ma. You do it
once, you gotta do it all the
time.”
“Get dressed.”
“I wanna puke every time I
think of it over there. Miriam’s
a good girl, she deserved some-
thing better than that. And the
little kid, right in the middle.
How does a mumser like that
have such a good little kid?”
“That bad, er ist nicht. And
you should not tell too much
your psychology to Miriam. To
know too much about things
it'll only make her more un-
happy.
“It’s the little one, ma; he’s
right in the middle. They’re
grown people, but the little one.
he’s right in the middle.”
“Der kleine, he will be all
right. Exactly with everyone
he’ll be; no worse, no better.”
“Eike everyone. That’s why
he sucks his thumb and cries
all the time. You know what he
does, ma, he goes up to the
bathroom and locks the door
and runs the faucet and cries.
He’s ashamed to cry ma, be-
cause that mumser — oh look
who’s here, der kleine, herr
Ownstein.”
Billy stood at the doorway ol
the living room, watching them
both, then he ran over to his
uncle who scooped him up in
his hands and made a hum-
ming noise like an airplane.
“What’s new, champ?” “Ah,
nothing much. Same old stuff."
Eliot winked at his mother, he
put him down on the floor and
gave him a playful tap on the
behind.
The boy took out his half
dollar and showed it to his un-
cle.
“Where did you get all the
dough ?”
“Daddy.”
“A half dollar, that’s big
money.”
“Not so much, my Daddy
sometimes gives me a dollar.”
“That’s nice.” Eliot looked
over towards his mother who
shook her head as if to say:
don’t make an issue of it.
“When Nathan P. comes
home I’m going to tell him.
maybe he’ll let you invest it in-
to the furniture business.’ ' The
mother and grandchild laughed
appreciatively.
30
Spring 1955
The boy said to his uncle,
“Will you go with me today?”
“Where?”
“To the park. Will you take
me to the park?”
Eliot looked knowingly at his
mother once again. “Isn’t Dad-
dy going to take you?”
“He says he might but he
won’t. T know he won’t. He’s
too tired, he’s always tired.”
He paused. “Will you?”
“Gee, I’m sorry, champ, but
it’s Julia’s birthday today and
we’re going to the concert. Give
me a raincheck on it will you?”
Mrs. Silver got up and said
that she had to go into the
kitchen and see how dinner
was. As she left the room Eliot
said to her, “Things are nice all
over, ma, aren’t they?”
Mrs. Silver turned slowly at
the doorway and faced her son.
“A boy and a man you are, all
at the same time.” She turned
quickly and left the room as
though she was embarrassed by
what she had just said. Eliot
lay back on the couch, staring
after her —
“What did she mean, Thiele
Eliot?”
“Sometimes you really can’t
be sure.”
The boy interrupted his un-
cle’s thoughts. “Uncle Eliot,
why do you like girls?”
“Because they wear pretty
things.”
“No, I mean really why?”
“Well, all the guys I know
are in the Army; all’s left is
girls so I have to take them
out.”
“Ah, that ain’t the reason.”
“It'll do for a while young
man, it’ll do for a while,” he
mumbled to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. C’mon upstairs
and we ll shave.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Ah, take it anyway.”
“O.K.”
Eliot got up slowly from the
couch and put on his horn-
rimmed glasses which were on
the coffee table. The uncle and
his nephew climbed the stairs,
hand in hand.
“You got a sharp blade for
me?”
“Of course.”
“Is it really sharp?”
“Give you the best one 1
got.”
PART THREE
Elliot sat at the table, impa-
tiently awaiting the end of the
meal, so he could leave.
“Daddy, you know what me
and Uncle Elliot did?”
Harvey Ornstein looked up
vaguely from the newspaper.
“What?”
“We shaved.”
“That’s nice,” his father
mumbled, and went hack to the
paper. “That’s real nice.”
The hoy turned to his uncle.
“Uncle Elliot is eating a path-
etic experience.”
“A what?” laughed Miriam.
“You know,” said the boy
still looking at his Uncle, “What
we were talking about when we
was shaving.”
“You mean esthetic experi-
ence,” laughed Eliot and the
three of them began to roar.
“What’s this, a goddamn
crazyhouse? Can’t you see I’m
trying to read?”
They were quiet for several
moments as Harvey went hack
to his paper and then the little
hoy pressed his question fur-
ther, “Is it?”
“Is what what?” teased Eliot.
“You know, what you said.”
“Well,” he stole a glance at
Harvey and then winked at
Mi riam, “I guess for some peo-
ple it is.”
Miriam broke out in laugh-
ter once again and Harvey
stared at her angrily. “For
Christ’s sakes Miriam, you set
a wonderful example for the
kid. You’re a mother, remem-
ber? This is a dinner table, not
a circus.”
“We’re only having a little
fun,” she pleaded.
“I’m no psychologist, I don’t
get ten bucks an hour, so I
don’t have to put up with this
nonsense.”
Eliot’s knees were trembling
and he began to wiggle his toes.
“Well if you spent some time
with us at the table instead of
always reading the paper, you
could lead us in discussions.”
“Don't get cute, Miriam,
don’t get cute.”
After a while the boy asked
his father; “Are we going to
the park this afternoon, Dad-
dy?” No answer. “You said to
ask you after dinner. Are we,
huh, are we?”
“Oh, don’t bother me.”
“You said to ask you after
dinner, you said to ask you.”
“Leave me alone,” he thun-
dered. “Leave me alone you lit-
tle squirt.” He slammed the pa-
per down on the floor. The
hoy’s eyes began to fill with
tears.
The father spoke to the boy.
“I’m sorry. Billy, Billy.” The
boy was crying easily now and
Harvey took out a handkerchief
and tried to wipe his eyes hut
the boy turned away from him.
Miriam stared out the window
and bit her lip.
Suddenly the hoy got up
from his chair. He took out the
half dollar from his pocket and
threw it at his father. It hit his
chest and bounced off onto the
floor and the boy ran upstairs
to the bathroom.
Harvey got up and left the
table. Miriam began to cry and
Eliot moved his chair over to
hers and put his arm around
31
Quarterly
her shoulder. He wanted to run
and leave them all there for-
ever. run into Julia’s arms and
forget everything, blot them out
of his memory, the pain and
the fear, he wanted to run. But
he couldn’t; he wanted to run,
but he couldn’t because Miriam
was crying and the kid was up-
stairs all alone.
“Miriam, take it easy baby.”
He patted her gently on the
shoulder. “Miriam honey, take
it easy.”
“I don't know what to do,”
she choked. “I just don’t know
what to do, Eliot. He’s . . .”
“I know, I know.” They
heard the front door slam.
“That’s how he takes care of
everything, that’s how he gets
out of things, slamming doors,
running away, Eliot.”
“I know, baby, I know. Go
upstairs and get some sleep.”
“The baby.”
“He'll be all right.”
She got up slowly and kissed
him on the cheek. Eliot stood
in the center of the kitchen
staring at the dishes on the ta-
ble. He put them all in the sink
and cleared away the rest of
the things. Then he picked up
the half dollar from the floor
and put it in his pocket. He
heard the water running in the
upstairs bathroom and it made
him think of the concert this
afternoon and he wondered
what would be on the program.
When he heard Julia’s voice
on the other end of the phone
he spoke quietly, calmly. “Hon-
ey, I can’t make it this after-
noon, there’s some trouble at
home. What? . . . Yeah, things
have gotten worse. I’m sorry,
honey, forgive me, it’s just
something I have to do; you
know what I mean ... I love
you too. honey. Tonight, I’ll see
you tonight.”
He put the receiver on the
hook, walked into Billy’s room
and picked up his warm winter
coat, gloves and hat. Then he
climbed the stairs slowly, his
hand in his pocket fingering the
big shiny half dollar.
Not to the Swift
Barbara Gillespie
Tentacled, grasping for the hidden prey
devouring sand and viscid slime in greed:
an all engulfing maw. In crimson spray
spewing precious shreds, again to feed
with eagerness that loses what is best
and never knows what satisfaction is:
contented nibbling at a captured quest.
The gut is filled, yet spirit calmly lives.
How like those men who restless, seething, strain
to wring from life each appetites' desire;
unheeding that the refuse of their gain
might hide the answer for which men aspire.
How few are those, who find the wise man’s part
in slow reflection, most of acting art.
32
Sl’KING 1955
Maria . . .
quickly. H is long slender fin-
gers put each piece into its
proper place with no noise at
all. She noted his thick hair
neatly parted, and his un-
wrinkled pin-striped shirt to
match the sharply creased ar-
my pants.
Her obesrvations were cut
short as Tiny, the chef yelled,
“Godamnit. what’s the matter
with you girls, pick up your or-
ders.”
The plates were hot as she
took them out from under the
heater, but the pain did not
penetrate very far; the picture
of Walter was still in her mind.
She wanted to turn around and
look at him again; the contrast
was refreshing.
She rushed over to pick up
her vegetables, but had to wait ;
Tiny was taking a drink from
his large glass of cloudy ice
water. Even now he looked ri-
diculous, such a big man ; more
like a mound of flesh loosely
thrown together than a real hu-
man being. His features almost
sickened her. they were so
coarse and flabby. His small
rough moustache looked out of
place and big drops of sweat
worked their way lazily to his
small round mouth.
“Hey, Maria, pick up; can’t
you understand English yet?”
“1 come. I wait,” Maria re-
plied, trying to swallow the
German in her accent. She
balanced the vegetable dishes
carefully on her tray, “Oh,
God, if I ever drop something
again,” she thought, as she
hurried out, glancing quickly
at Walter
As the door was swinging
closed behind her Tiny said,
“You know, if it’s one thing I
can’t stand it’s a damn heinie;
spent two years of my life killin
’em and then ya gotta spend
the rest of your life working
for ’em. Hell, someday I’m
gonna tell that Maria where to
get off, she thinks she’s so
damned efficient.”
“Leave the poor kid alone,
will you. Tiny,” Sam said, “she
didn’t ask to be born there, you
now.
“Aw, she’s a heinie just like
the rest of ’em. I can tell by
the look in their eyes.”
“I’ve met some pretty fine
people who are German,” Wal-
ter ventured to say.
“Who the hell asked your
opinion; will you listen to
that? The first day a guy
works here, and he has to put
his two cents in.”
Walter's reply was lost in the
clamour of the dishes and when
Maria returned to the kitchen,
she heard Sam singing, “Cross
over the bridge, cross over the
bridge, leave your pickle patch
behind you . . .”
Laughing, Maria said, “Oh,
Sam. the song not pickle patch,
it’s fickle past, and she sang a
line of it for him in a soft clear
voice.
“I never knew you could
sing Maria,” Sam said.
“Oh, that is nothing, we al-
ways used to . . .”
“There’s too much goddamn
noise in this kitchen; shut-up
all of you,” Tiny yelled.
In the silence which had sud-
denly been thrown on the kitch-
en, Maria worked her way
quietly to the closet to get clean
plates. How could she talk to
Walter, just to let him know she
was there? She went to get
some clean sliver from the tray
where he was drying it. Be-
fore she could reach for them
(Continued from Page 13 1
he sai( 1. “H ere are the spoons
vou neec 1. M aria.”
“Thank you, Walter,” and
she felt a small blush growing
from the slight panic she felt.
There was something so gentle
about him, almost as if he had
just saved those spoons for her,
and dried them with extra care.
She then noticed that he was
listening closely to something.
The music was coming in from
the dining room. ‘Isn’t that a
waltz from some German op-
era?” he asked her.
It was so familiar, they had
always hummed it at home, but
she never knew the names of
melodies. If only she knew, but
before she could feel embar-
assed he said, “Oh, yes it’s
from ‘Die Eledermause.’ ”
“Oh. that’s right. I have al-
ways loved it,” and she gave
him a smile of mutual appre-
ciation. Imagine, someone
working in the kitchen as a
dishwasher who knows German
opera. As she walked past Sam
to get the cups, he whispered
in her ear, “This one’s educat-
ed.”
She said quietly, “Yah. I
hear he came yesterday, he
seems intelligent and polite.”
Sam smiled at her with a
slight teasing look in his eyes
and she quickly turned to look
at the clock. It was already
eight-thirty; well the worst was
over, she thought. It was only
now, as she slowed down that
she could feel the extreme ache
of her body. She leaned
against the table to steady her-
self and slow the staccato
rhythm which still rushed the
tempo of her whole being. Wal-
ter— he was interesting; she al-
most felt as if he understood
her and knew of her loneliness.
33
Quarterly
It was odd that he should know
her favorite tune. She almost
felt that she had known him a
long time, as if they had met
somewhere before. But that
was only imagining things.
From being alone so much, she
had created nice people in her
mind ; she thought of them so
much that sometimes when she
waited on people she got the
feeling of familiarity. Almost
as if she had known them be-
fore, she wanted to know them.
Like that couple today who had
said, “Isn't her accent interest-
ing.” That was just because
they had been to Europe last
summer. Nice people though;
they had a daughter about her
age taking lessons at the music
school. It must be nice to
study, go out to dinner and
have someone to love ...”
“Sweep out, clean out,” Tiny
shouted as he pushed his foot
against a tin can, making it fly
across the kitchen. His eyes
darted from person to person,
looking for something, and
when they came to Walter, he
stopped. He listened to Walter
talking to Maria. Maria was
laughing and said, “Oh, I did
not know you could speak Ger-
man, that is wonderful.”
“I just picked up a few
words, frauline Maria, Ich kann
nicht gut speak.”
They both laughed. “Yah,
you do fine,” Maria said.
“Eli tell you what, you teach
me . . .”
“She'll teach you nothing,
Walter,” Tiny said; “what do
you think this is, social hour?
We don’t have no after dinner
conversations in here like the
people out there,” he said point-
ing to the dining room. “And
for God’s sake, I don’t want to
hear that German, had enough
of the damn heinies.”
Maria glanced with embar-
assment toward Walter, their
eyes met, no words were spok-
en, but they could both go on
working in the calm silence.
All that could be heard was the
churning of the machine and
the scraping of the dishes.
Barbara, one of the waitress-
es burst in, “What a night, hon-
estly, I was so rushed I didn't
know whether I was coming or
going, how’d you do Maria?”
“I got pretty good tips; but
tired, you too, jah? Maybe we
get cleaned up and sweep and
then we can relax and talk to-
gether."
“Say, you’re right Maria,
and I’ve got a date at ten ; God,
how will he love me looking
like this?” and she ran one
hand through her short loose
hair, using the other arm to
lead Marie out to the dining
room.
As they were sweeping she
said, “Hope I have enough
money saved to make it
through school this year, that’s
the only reason I’m in this rat
race. You know, sometimes I
hate it so I could scream. And
that Tiny, he’s so obnoxious. I
hope he leaves that new guy
alone. I don’t know how you
stand it, Maria, living here and
all. You never get out of it,
why don't you try finding a
steady job of some sort or try
to go to school.
“That is what I would like,
but my English is not good. I
must learn first.”
“Hey, why don’t you get that
new fellow, the polite one . . .”
“Walter?”
“Yes, why don't you get him
to teach you some English. He’s
really smart, even went to col-
lege, and that is something for
a dishwasher. I wonder why
he’s a dishwasher, he speaks so
well and knows a lot. There
must be something wrong with
him ; they all fall down some-
where, work a week, get their
pay check, and then go off on a
binge.
“He seems different, though.”
“Yes, you're right, I heard
him say that he wanted to go
back to college.”
“But he is over thirty, how
can he?”
“I don’t know, some people
just can, or else they think they
can. Nobody even knows what
he’s done all this time, or where
he's been. Well, I have to run
to keep my date, mind finish-
ing up for me, Maria; you’re a
doll, thanks a million.”
“That’s alright, I finish. Bar-
bara.” and she continued
sweeping.
When she turned out the
lights the darkness seemed to
absorb some of the heat, but as
she went up to her room on the
third floor, where all the help
slept, she felt the pressure of
the heat again. She took the
steps slowly; now every part of
her body ached, but it was a
satisfying pain. It gave her the
feeling that she had used her
body for all it was worth, and
she didn’t feel such complete-
ness very often. The ache in
her back was almost welcome
because she knew that now she
could rest with real satisfaction
— she had worked like every-
body else.
It was almost like at home
when all the children helped out
in her father’s bake shop and
before holidays they worked
long hours. They would all be
exhausted late at night but
somehow they never minded it
because they got so silly and
laughed and sang. Her father
had a stern temper, like Tiny,
only he never meant anything
by it. He would always end the
evening with a kiss and a smile
for his special “Marichen.” She
34
Spring 1955
had understood her father, but
it was harder for her younger
brother Hans who was always
so sensitive. But he had
changed when the G.I.’s were
billeted to stay with them. What
fun they all had singing and
joking in the kitchen. And the
stories they used to tell about
America, unbelievable. But she
had her favourite, even then,
when she was twelve years old.
He was more quiet than the
others, and perhaps this is why
she felt closer to him. He would
read a lot, and listen to music,
how he had played those waltz-
es over and over again on the
old phonograph. Was it the
same waltz as this morning?
She did not talk to him very
much, but she would sit and lis-
ten with him. With his slender
fingers, the same fingers, he
would turn each record over
carefully, smile at her gently,
then lean hack in the arm chair
and retreat into a world which
she thought she could share. It
must have been the music
which made her feel this close-
ness, or perhaps her childish
imagination had created the
relationship. He never told her
his name, she just called him
G.I. She had really never been
alone with him very often, but
the day he did not come hack,
she felt as if she had lost her
whole world. He did not even
say good-bye, they never found
out why he left. Hans could
not believe it, and her father
said that this is the way these
Americans are, good natured
but so unreliable. Maria had
tried to understand, but she
could never bring herself to be-
lieve that he had gone out of
their lives completely. She
would dream about him. One
night he was her teacher, then
her father, and later his fea-
tures were molded in her mind
to become her secret boyfriend.
But then she grew up and with
slight embarassment realized
that this had been a childish
game she was playing. She did
not want to think about him
very often after that.
“Oh. but Walter could not be
the same G.I.,” she thought as
she stopped to rest on the chair
in the hall. They all look alike
in their uniforms, and it was
over ten years ago. This is
silly . . . but maybe . . . they
could be together, perhaps even,
he would love her. They could
do wonderful things together,
see America the way he had
told her about it, not be alone,
do things together . . .
The sound of water running
full force in the bath room
brought her back to reality.
That must Be Tiny taking his
weekly bath. She wanted to
leave before he came out. She
took one quick glance around
the hall, wondering which door
was Walter’s, and hurried to
her room.
She lay awake a long time on
the blanketless bed with a light
sheet drawn over her. No mat-
ter how hot it was, she always
had to have something to cover
her and she pulled it up close
to her chin. It gave her an in-
timate secure feeling. She
pulled her knees up close to her
body and experienced a warm
peacefulness as she thought of
Walter. Tomorrow, she would
ask him somehow. Perhaps he
didn t want to know her again.
It would take a delicate ques-
tion to find out, but she would
do it, “please God, help me to
find him.”
She was in a half dreaming
and half awake state; first she
was taking orders and trying
to lift a tray but she couldn’t
get it up, no matter how she ar-
ranged the dishes. Everyone
was laughing and pointing.
Suddenly a new source of
strength was revived in her
body, almost as if a cool slen-
der hand, not her own, were
lifting the tray. She carried it
high over her head and right
out of the restaurant.
She woke up as she heard a
slight rustle. Instinctively she
knew there was someone in the
room. When her eyes adjusted
to the darkness she could see a
white figure standing against
the window. Her body tensed
from head to foot, she could not
move and dared not speak. The
man at the window was oblivi-
ous to all except the air which
he was greedily drinking in.
The n, with slow swaying move-
ments, he turned and stared at
her openly. Facing her dark
frightened eyes, his own seemed
to flicker in recognition, and he
looked at her as if he realized
for the first time where he was
and what he was doing.
“Maria, I’m sorry, terribly
sorry, I didn’t mean to scare
you, and he moved further
away from her bed toward the
door.
"Oh. oh, I did not know it
was you, G.I., I just woke up,
why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, it was such
a hot night, I went out for a
drink. Guess I had a little too
much, but I'm all right, really,
all right.” and his body swayed
toward the door.
“You better go; but wait, if
Tiny sees you he will be mad,
please be careful.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,
be can t hurt me, but it’s you
I’m worried about.”
“I am alright, I always could
take care of myself, not like
Hans, do you remember?”
“Hans, Maria; yes ‘Mari-
chen' I remember, those were
wonderful days. I'm sorry I
35
Quarterly
left, but I couldn't help it, you
see I was a bad boy that week-
end, got loaded, no more pass-
es after that. 1 hear someone
outside, I’d better go, we can
talk tomorrow, we have the rest
of our lives to talk; good-night,
darling.”
She sat awake a long time,
it was almost like a dream, but
no it was real, it all was real,
she lay down, covered herself,
and cried softly into the pillow.
Later that night, she heard
men’s shouts, “get away from
me you drunk bastard,” and
there was pushing and falling.
Her tiredness overpowered her,
and she went back into the se-
curity of peaceful sleep.
Toward early morning she
was awakened by a cool breeze,
it was raining outside. The
lightening zig-zagged crazily in
and out of the sky; it seemed
to jump right at her, but some-
how it wasn't frightening, but
cool — exciting and delicious.
She leaned her head out the
window, let the rain hit her
face. Walter must be down-
stairs, “I hope he got back to
his room all right,” and she
hurried down.
When she came to the kitch-
en, Walter was not there. Sam
did not whistle, even Tiny was
silent, and she caught her
breath as she saw a large
scratch on Tiny’s cheek. She
remembered the shouts, a fight,
what had happened?
“Where is Walter, should I
call him?” she asked with
forced calm.
Tiny turned to her, “Don't
bother, Maria, the son of a
bitch made a little trouble last
night, but we took care of him,
you won't be seeing him around
here again.”
“You mean he is gone, why.
what happened, why did you
fight?” she asked with a hint
of despair in her voice.
“You should know the an-
swer to that one, Maria; it was
your door he was leaning
against when he picked a fight
with me; why don't you tell us
Ma ria?” Tiny said with a pasty
smile.
“What you want from me, I
know nothing, 1 slept all
night.”
“That’s a good one, she slept
all night, will ya listen to that,”
and Tiny laughed uncontroll-
ably.
“Shut-up, for God's sake shut-
up and let the poor kid alone,”
Sam said in a voice which car-
ried the impulse of a strong fist.
“Aw, the guy was completely
nuts anyway, said he had found
himself, or some baloney. You
should have heard him and
when I asked him why he was
trying to get in your room, he
pushed me, but I let him have
it, not gonna take that stuff
from anybody, least of all from
a damn heinie.”
“He was good, don’t talk
about him that way,” Maria
said with conviction.
“Yeah. I know you thought
he was good, the way you
looked at him, real chummy
like, now what’s wrong with a
guy like me?’ and he extended
a flabby arm to her shoulder.
She darted from his grasp
quickly, “I hate you, he
couldn’t help it, I liked him.
and I will find him again,” and
with a quick motion, she picked
up the heavy tray, carrying it
high over her head, and walked
out into the clean cool dining
room.
Mystic Candles
David Licciardi
If you have known love kindling inside
As eternity in a moment of reality.
Known the wonder of a child’s hand
As aspect of an infinite merit be.
It was all.
It will ever be.
A moment’s harmony.
If you have felt the life and blood and heartbeat How,
Cradled in your arms the moment’s glow.
It was a moment much more so.
36
Spring 1955
Book Reviews
A FABLE. WILLIAM FAULKNER. NEW YORK: RANDOM HOUSE. $4.75
Reviewed by David Wetterberg
Although the publishers of
A Fable would have us be-
lieve otherwise, the latest
novel of the winner of the
1950 Nobel Prize for Literature
is not in itself merely a modern
parallel to the Christ-story.
Christ does appear as a Corpor-
al among the ranks of the
French Army during World
War I; yet this is not where the
value of this book by William
Faulkner lies. Rather it is in the
gospel which he himself is
preaching.
Amid a background of roar-
ing guns man goes on relentless-
ly fighting the war of a system;
yet it is but one link in the to-
tality of War which has gone on
since time began, enduring for-
ever, through which man also
will endure, but more, prevail.
This, in a very general sense, is
the theme of the novel, and the
Christ-story is a vehicle with
which the message may be con-
veyed to the reader through a
familiar medium. For the Cor-
poral is not the Son of a Spirit-
ual God; he is the illegitimate
son of the Grand Marshal of
France and an illiterate Leban-
ese peasant woman. The Marsh-
al signifies glory, power,
wealth, influence; the Corpor-
al’s mother signifies man in his
most tragically innocent form.
Thus the Corporal is half-Man,
half-Military. Here lies the con-
flict with which Faulkner con-
cerns himself. But his Corporal
forsakes glory, power, wealth,
and influence for the sake ot
the gospel of brotherhood
among men, is executed by a
Negro firing squad. Thus he is
not the son of the Son of the
Christian God. The corporal is
the Son of Earthly Man. With
this in mind, rather than the
expectation that we will close
the book with a more vivid pic-
ture of the meaning of Christ’s
teachings in the present, or that
we will enter into a new life of
renewed Christian faith, we will
see A Fable develop into an-
other masterpiece of Faulkner-
ian genius.
To get to the main plot of the
story, A Fable is concerned
with the temporary armistice
which occurred a few months
before the end of World War I.
At the instigation of Corporal
Brzewksi and twelve of bis fol-
lowers, a French regiment, up-
on the order to attack, throws
down its arms and walks toward
the enemy lines to be met on
the battlefield by unarmed Ger-
man soldiers who themselves
have been exposed to the cor-
poral— how, nobody knows. The
mutinying regiment is arrested
and their commanding officer
requests that the men be execut-
ed. Meanwhile, the war comes
to an abrupt standstill and a
German general flies to confer
with the allied commanders, all
deciding that the outcome of a
war cannot be decided by such
a unified effort of the common
soldier, but only by the political
leaders of the earth, for to them
war must always exist as an
outlet for the problems of na-
tions. Hence, any future exhibi-
tion will be dealt with severely.
When the German general
flies back. Corporal Brzewksi is
brought before a board of allied
commanders where a British
officer recognizes him as a Pri-
vate Boggin, killed at Mons in
1914. An American officer
swears he saw him buried at
sea in 1917. It is decided that
the corporal will be executed at
dawn with an idiot and a thief.
Later, after a somewhat harsh
and unconvincing Last Supper
during which the second dis-
ci pie deserts his leader, the
Marshal, already identified as
the corporal’s father, takes his
son upon a high hill overlook-
ing the battlefront and gives
him a chance to forsake all he
has taught for his liberty. When
the Corporal refuses, the Mar-
shal offers him freedom, then
the earth (by publicly recogniz-
ing him as bis son), then life.
The corporal refuses all.
The next day the corporal is
executed, the bullets knocking
over the stake be is tied to so
that his body falls into a rub-
bish heap, a strand of barbed
wire encircling his head. His
37
Quarterly
mother, father, and his prosti-
tute wife take the body to their
farm and bury it in the side of
a hill, where it is blown apart
in the renewed barrage, leaving
no trace of the body, only
splinters from the coffin. The
corpse, however, turns up in an-
other farmyard, and after some
skillful manipulation ends up
in the tomb of the Unknown
Soldier at Verdun. Thus the
Son of Man is resurrected for
posterity, underneath the Arch
de Triomphe.
The most confusing person-
ality in A Fable is the central
character, the Marshal, com-
mander of the allied forces. He
is a Pilate. Caesar, the Devil,
and God, all in one. Fantastic
family power and influence
could have brought him to the
rank of general at the age of
35; moral austerity made him
request a post commanding un-
ruly soldiers in Africa; with his
intellect he passed through mil-
itary academy with top honors;
yet he resigned for a time to a
Tibetan monastery before re-
turning to France at the begin-
ning of the war to control the
armies as a modern Caesar. He
is the rightful father of the cor-
poral; in this sense he is God.
When he offers the corporal lib-
erty. freedom, the earth and
life, he is the Devil tempting
the Son of Man. Yet he is Pon-
tius Pilate, and gives up the
whole affair. But for the pur-
pose of the novel and the mess-
age Faulkner brings, the Mar-
shal is the epitome of the poli-
tical monsters whose calling is
to keep the world in continuous,
blood-letting battle.
“It wasn’t we who invented
war, it was war which created
us. From the loins of man’s in-
eradicable greed sprang the
captain’s and the colonel's to
his necessity. We are his re-
sponsibility. He shall not shirk
it. The Marshal is Authority.
The corporal is man’s inno-
cence, and this is why Faulkner
brings in the personality of Je-
sus as Corporal Brzewski, and
in doing so he handles it very
wisely. For rather than attempt
to rephrase the sayings of one
of the greatest teachers of all
time, he never has the corporal
say more than one sentence,
and even then it does not ex-
ceed five words. Rather, his
teachings and the teachings of
Faulkner are put into the
mouths of a runner, and a Ne-
gro parson, Tobe Sutterfield.
The runner is a private who
was once an officer, but who
forsook his bars when he real-
ized the evil under the surface
of modernized civilization. In
this state of mind he comes un-
der the influence of the corpor-
al. The parson is a partner in a
horse-stealing story probably
brought in for relief from the
intensity of the novel. But it is
the runner’s dialogues which
are the most inspiring, the most
fascinating, and the most valu-
able in the book. “Because —
don't you see? They can’t have
this. They can't permit this, to
stop it all yet, let alone allow it
to stop in this way — .”
What stands out above all in
A Fable is the almost complete
lack of Spiritual Divinity. Tobe
Sutterfield talks of God, but
very remotely. The corporal
performs no miracles, has no
contact with a spiritual God,
and his message to the world is
not one of salvation by the for-
giveness of individual sins
through suffering; but that the
common man, the common sol-
dier can do more than endure
throughout endless turmoil. The
corporal’s sacrifice is a stepping
stone upon which man can
leave the present system of sin
behind him and climb to a
brotherhood never before
thought possible.
THE BIG BALL OF WAX. Shepherd Mead. New York: Simon and Schuster. $3.50.
An attempt to delineate a rosy fantasy of what life could be with synthetic sensations substituted for
actual experience, a satire of life today, a rather overdone sketch of life in 1993 — this is Shepherd Mead's
offering. Subtitled A Story of Tomorrow’s Happy World , this book is a combination of caricatures of pre-
sent-day situations, oversensuous experiences, and the ordinary details of a businessman’s life which have
not changed in thirty-nine years although everything else has. The book is another of this year’s crop of sec-
ond-rate science fantasies. A.D.
38
Spring 1955
Comment in Print . . .
assumption of the right to cen
sor. This would be highly un-
fortunate, but it might happen.
Some day there may not be a
person willing to ad\ ise the
Quarterly and thereby put him-
self in an ambiguous and vul-
nerable spot. Then the Q will
die, for Recognized Student Ac-
tivities requires that every stu-
dent group have an advisor.
These problems must be
solved. They affect the fibre of
the university; in their present
condition they weaken that
fibre.
WHAT TO DO?
To end the ambiguity and
possible censorship of student
publications, Mr. Mather should
first abolish the requirement for
advisors.
Second, he should abandon
his job as censor, and admit
that truth will make its own
way best under its own power.
Third, he should admit the
university’s power to censor,
but he shoidd make a public
declaration that censorship in
basis and principle is bad, and
therefore the university admin-
istration will not employ pre- or
postpublication editing.
Meanwhile we must fight for
literary freedom. We don't have
to snipe at the administration
from our Mem Hall offices, and
the Collegian doesn’t have to at-
tack the present policies and
lack thereof at every opening.
However, education is a won-
derful thing, and perhaps we
can teach the school — and the
president — something about
censorship. Apparently, to
judge from his insistence on the
use of the word “review ”, even
college presidents can learn thal
college can be an educational
experience.
* * *
The Quarterly' s new advisor
is Richard Haven. Mr. Haven
replaces H. Leland Varley, to
whom this issue is dedicated.
More than a new advisor has
the Q. Theoretically speaking,
the mag also has a new set of
editors. In reality, that's not so.
Erwin Pally, a frequent con-
tributor, moves up from prose
editor to editor-in-chief. He suc-
ceeds Sam Kaplan, who switch-
es places with Pally and now
heads the prose department.
Lorna Regolsky retains the
poetry editorship. The same
three, hence, are editors — a big
shuffle, but the same hand.
* * *
With this issue— probably the
biggest in Q history — two fea-
tures return to the magazine
For the first time in three years
book reviews and photographs
are part of the contents.
Several book publishers have
contributed books for review;
two of these are printed within.
At the end of the year the Q
w ill present the books to sorely
small Goodell.
Tom Smith has singlehanded
accounted for the photos. He
gave us the picture of himself,
took the shot,
of Lorna Re-
golsky ( o n
Lorna’s Page) ,
and was the
artist who pho-
tographed the
Campus a t
Night portfol-
io which runs
in the middle
of the maga-
zine.
Smith is a vet who snapped
pictures for the Marine Corps,
and also was Marine Atlantic
division wmestling champ in the
137 lb. bracket. He wrestles for
( Continued from Page 2 )
the university squad.
He is also photog for the
Index and the Collegian ; he
free lances, has had material in
the alumni magazine, Boston
papers, and — this is the best
we can do — elsewhere.
Besides all this he majors
in chemical engineering. Luck-
ily only a sophomore, he’ll be
around for two more years. The
Q will carry more Smith photo
features in later editions.
* * 45-
Campus at Night, by the way,
so impressed Index editor Ira
Nottonson that he asked the Q
if he could use them in the
annual.
Happy to help out other har-
assed publications, we con-
sented. and the Campus at
Night shots will also appear in
more permanent form in the
/ ndex.
•X- * *
Speaking of publications, we
have been delighted in the past
few years with some twisted
sentences and misplaced words
the Collegian has run.
Last year was particularly
memorable, what with a picture
of a “blazer, sitting on the steps
of Mem Hall'’ and a story re-
porting that “World War III
wdll be fought in Bowker to-
night at 8 p.m.”
The best this year came at
the time of tin* cheating meet-
ings, when the major story an-
nounced in the first sentence
that “recommendations . . . for
establishing a uniform program
for dishonesty were presented
at a faculty-student meeting.”
No one has ever concluded
which of the two I faculty or
students) wanted uniform
cheating procedures, although
it seems obvious that teachers
39
OUAKTEKM
would be for it for simplicity
and students for it on the
grounds of equality of oppor-
tunity.
Cheating, though we here
write of it jocularly, is a serious
problem. In part it is a result
of the monumental emphasis
put on marks by teachers and
parents, and probably stems
from that part of our culture
called “free enterprise” or un-
trammelled competition.
Parents are probably the
hardest pushers of good mark-
getting. But whatever the cause,
this letter from a freshman in
high school speaks eloquently,
we think, for the sad stress on
grades. On first reading it we
were hysterical with disbelief,
but we became appalled when
we considered what it all meant.
Here is an excerpt from that
letter:
“My second problem
SCHOOL. I’m dropping from
first to third honors. My biol-
ogy will stay A and my Latin
will stay B, but English and
Geometry are dropping from
A’s to B’s which is rather ter-
rible to say the least. We had
a geometry test Tuesday and
1 got an A plus but that didn’t
do any good. My other marks
were C plus, B plus, A minus,
AND then the A plus and Mr.
Smith won’t stretch it to a low
A minus. My English has been
terrrrrible this marking period.
We had two compositions on
“THE ODYSSEY” and they
ruined everything. I got a B
minus on the first one and a
B on the second one. Yesterday,
I got my book report back on
“REBECCA with a nice big
beautiful A on it, and do you
know how much good it did me
. . . absolutely NONE. Il
wouldn’t have mattered if I got
an A, B. or C on it; my mark
is still a B. The geometry
worked the same way. Oh well,
there’s nothing I can do about
it now. I’ll just have to buckle
down and do some good hard
work.”
Yes. just buckle down and do
some good — hard — work.
Two Poems
Barbara Smith
Morning
Body stirs; though the nest is warm and safe
And comfort struggles dully to be left
To its coiled peace, its very struggles chafe
The soul to life; and sleep’s arms are bereft
As body stirs, reluctant eyes still shut.
The room too lies in darkness, curtains drawn.
But day now lives, its natal cord is cut,
The pain-starred night brings forth a wailing dawn.
Gray morning glow creeps in through window cracks.
Familiar objects reassume their shape.
As time plods round and round his wonted tracks
And leaves the inert body no escape.
The morning’s come, though night has been too short:
The day looms long, and far night’s safe resort.
Love’s Awareness
Sunlight shifting through the golden shade of leaves
Now past the flame and fading-careless wanderers
Of a secret path, we walk through silence and
The calm of aftermath — calm, for none grieves
The past or future here. Each present moment
Has its chance at life, weight given to each grain of sand.
We too are here without regret or hope.
We seize each glistening speck of time; his hand
On mine, we fan the tiny spark to leaping glow.
Now peace lies sweet within us, but the poor world grieves
Alike for tarnished souls and faded leaves.
Spring 1955
THE WINNER
of the
QUARTERLY’S
1954-55
HIGH SCHOOL LITERARY CONTEST
41
Quarterly
THOU SHALT LIVE AGAIN
Barbara Dobravolskv
Millis High School
Johnny was home, ll certainly felt good after
all those months, first in Korea and then in a hos-
pital. That is, almost good. Johnny wasn’t quite
sure he wanted to he home. What could he do!
He would never go back to his job at the office. They
wouldn't want him. And he didn’t like being de-
pendent on Mom. Dad’s insurance had left her
pretty well off. Johnny had helped a littffi, too.
Mom hadn’t liked it, but he had persisted. Now
there was nothing.
‘‘Here you are. Sergeant. An' welcome home.
“Thanks, driver. How much ?"'
The cabby grinned. “Don’t worry. I been tak-
en care of. Watch your step. "
Yes, watch your step, Johnny. How long have
you been hearing that? Ever since you first started
to walk, eh? Well, watch your— whoops, there I
go now.
With a shrug, Johnny grasped his hag and
stepped to the sidewalk. After a moment’s hesita-
tion, he advanced up the neat, flower-bordered
walk. Carefully he climbed the four well-remem-
bered porch steps, and slowly be walked to the door.
After a bit of fumbling. Johnny pushed the door-
bell and waited. Presently he heard approaching
footsteps, and his heart skipped a beat. That would
he Mom.
Johnny was suddenly engulfed in a pair of lov-
ing arms. He felt his mother’s tears on his own
face. Maybe they were his, too. Then she was lead-
ing him inside.
“Oh, Johnny, why didn’t you call us? We'd
have come down to the station to get you.” She
sounded a bit hysterical.
“I couldn’t, Mom. The doctors told me to come
home without any help. Gee, it’s wonderful to be
hack. Rut say! where is everybody?”
He had spoken too soon. Their voices must
have been heard because somewhere a door
slammed. Then a scurrying of feet and finally, a
screech of joy. “Uncle Johnny! It’s Uncle Johnny !”
“Hi, Jeannie. Where’s Joan?”
“Why, I'm Joan. Jean hasn’t come down yet.
Can't you tell the difference any more?”
Johnny started to speak, but his mother inter-
fered.
“Of course he can, dear. But it’s been so long.
You've changed. Now run along, like good girls.”
Jean had come running, and together the twins
chorused, “But Gramma, we want to talk with Un-
cle Johnny.”
“Not now, children. Your uncle is tired. You
can see him later.”
Frowning angrily the twelve-year-olds stamped
outdoors. A smile of thanks lit up Johnny’s face.
With an arm around her waist, he and his mother
wandered into the living room.
“Clair has gone to visit Ralph’s parents. She
wants to be with them till Ralph is discharged. He’s
stationed there now, you know. The twins are stay-
ing here until Clair and Ralph send for them.”
“Well, son, would you like to go to your room
and rest awhile? I . . .”
“Wait, Mom. Sit down, please. There’s some-
thing I want to say.” When his request had been
fulfilled he continued with. “I’m not going to be
dependent on you. I can’t ask Sherry to marry me,
either. It’s not fair to her or you to have to take
care of me. I guess I can find a place somewhere
and get along all right.”
“But, Johnny, . . .” interrupted Mrs. Wallace.
“I’ll still visit you.” Johnny went on firmly, dis-
regarding the interruption. “But I just don’t feel
right about living here. You aren’t exactly rich,
you know. I'll he okay and maybe someday things
will change.”
Behind him Johnny caught the soft rustle of a
skirt. He whirled and peered intently into black,
frightening darkness. The pleasing scent of per-
fume was wafted to his nostrils, and he gave a
start. Only one person that he knew wore that per-
fume. It must be —
“Sherry!”
“Johnny! Oh, my darling!”
Sherry’s arms went about her fiance as he held
her close. Then she pushed him away and gazed at
him admiringly.
“Your hair, I swear is darker. Your face is
12
Spring 1955
pale, but that’s because you were ill. Oh my dear-
est, it's good to be in your arms again.”
“Sherry. Sherry, darlin’, I — I want to explain
something.”
“Hush, sweetheart, don't. I'm afraid I’m an
eavesdropper. I heard everything. And there’s
something I must tell you, Mr. Wallace.”
“Sherry!” Johnny cried surprisedly.
“Now you just sit down. Here.” Sherry had
assumed a stern air. “Listen to me, Mr. Wallace.
Just what do you mean you won't marry me? You
promised me you would, and you’ll keep your word.
Also, you. or rather, we’ll live here with your moth-
er. While you’re in work I can take care of the
house. Wait a moment,” as Johnny started to in-
terrupt.
But Johnny wasn't to be stopped. Reaching up-
ward, he grabbed Sherry’s arms. Pulling her to the
seat beside him, he demanded. “Who do you think
is going to hire ME? And what do you mean by
calling me mister. Answer me that,” he shouted.
“All right, Johnny,” Sherry said calmly. “You
needn’t holler so. I ll tell you. Your old boss is
hiring you back. He said you knew enough about
the business to be of great help to him. And I’m
calling you mister because you’re so stubborn. I
hope you're happy!”
Johnny’s arms went lax. “Forgive me, Sherry.
Believe me. I’m not happy. I’m so mixed up. May-
be I’m just no good for you.”
“Johnny, no! You’re wonderful, and I love
you.” Sherry was suddenly crying happily.
“Oh Johnny, a person doesn’t need eyes to work
and love. That’s what's bothering you I know. But
eyes aren't everything. And anyway, you can get a
pair of new eyes from the hospital. Didn’t you
know?”
“Yes,” Johnny choked. “But I didn’t much be-
lieve it.”
“You big, overgrown dope. Johnny, please say
you love me. I do so love you.”
With a smile of contentment, Mrs. Wallace
climbed the stairs to her room. There were going
to be many plans to take care of.
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Name Position
Add ress
City Zone
State Phone No
43
Quarterly
C & C Package Store, Ine.
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catering especially to
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NORTH PLEASANT STREET
Next to the Town Hall
AMHERST
- ■
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(New Location)
65 NORTH PLEASANT STREET
St. Regis
FLOWERS & CORSAGES
for Every Campus Occasion
GOOD FOOD AT PRICES
YOU CAN AFFORD.
Enjoy both
sides of smoking
pleasure!
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MOV 30 1976
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